


The House Of The Rising Sun

by Luna_sharp618



Category: BBC Sherlock
Genre: Alcohol, Anderson’s a twat, Angst, Blood and Gore, Cooking, Drug Abuse, F/F, F/M, Fighting, Gambling, HH Holmes type murder house, Homophobic Slurs, I hate athelney Jones, M/M, Murder, Past Animal Abuse, Past Child Abuse, Pining, Prostitution, Sex, internally organs in places they shouldn’t be, johns sad, prostetic limbs, sherlocks a thot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2019-09-22 08:23:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 15
Words: 60,815
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17056265
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Luna_sharp618/pseuds/Luna_sharp618
Summary: Do you like reading stories of societal collapse? Where John Watson is an empty shell of a man seeking comfort and Sherlock is an obnoxious sex worker? Where they find each other and end up following the trail of grisly murders within the brothel that Sherlock works? Well I think you might enjoy this...





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic was inspired by the song ‘The House Of The Rising Sun’ by the Animals. I’ve always listened to the song thinking of the wonders that occur inside the hous ehey song about and then what if I could fit my two favourite boys into this plotline...and so this was created. Comments and kudos are much appreciated and if this isn’t really your thing you are free to leave and go about your buissness, but please enjoy!

The air is stale. It’s stagnant and static and suffocating with the lingering heaviness of dread that greets the world with every new dawn. Everything is stale since the war. Everything, barren and lifeless, especially to John Watson. 

He limps down the desolate street with an expression of muted pain as his leg shrieks with sudden bursts of agony. Acting as if he was back in that rotten hospital, laying in the odour of the last poor sod that was left there to die.

The atmosphere clings to him now as he watches a mother drag her child close to her side, away from his gaze. To her he is a danger, not a hero. Not a man who risked his life along with countless others to provide a future for her daughter- it’s not much of a life but a chance nonetheless. This mother sees him as threat. A predator. A soldier. 

He passes her by, his cane stabilises every step as he heads to the park. The grass is no longer luscious and green like it once was when he visited in his youth. Nothing is alive anymore. The trees are ashy, barely surviving and the wildlife is choking on the staleness of the dead air. 

Just like John.

He remembers visiting this place when the sun actually shon, not just floated behind the huge dust clouds that blew over from the East when America stupidly bombed the majority of the Middle East for a hopeless attempt at peace. John huffs at the abstract thought, peace is something he doubts will ever be in the world and he has more experience than most in trying to find it. 

His boredom has gotten dangerously high during his days of sitting in his sorry excuse of a home, staring at the draw that guards his illegal weapon, teetering on the edge of wanting to live and wanting to die. He is already an empty shell of a man that no longer has any value to the country he served, why not add another bullet wound. 

He’s so deep in thought that it takes him a moment to realise that someone is calling to him. An acute sensation of thrill and fear shoots through him. It’s most definitely a Ravager that has singled him out. The cane and limp make him an easy target for these vultures. John feels the familiar rush of adrenaline kick in as he continues to hobble from his stalker. The weight of his gun tucked into his waistband is a heavy reminder of how quickly he could end this chase. How quickly one of them could die by his hand. He hears the footsteps draw closer and he braces himself for a fight, before chancing a quick glance over his shoulder to his pursuer.

“John!” his surprisingly large and red-faced advisory calls out to him from across the path “John Watson!”

John stops and turns to face the oncoming man, squinting as he inspects his large frame and beige coat. His voice is familiar but John can’t quite place it. That is until the man is a mere two steps away from him. 

“John” the man greets as he huffs out a series of short breaths. John looks at him with mute surprise as he puts a hand over his heart and takes a deep inhale, looking like he’s about to double over with a heart attack right before his very feet. “Stamford” he stammers.

“Mike?” John guesses as his memory takes a wild stab in the dark, taking a step forward, grasping Mike’s elbow and helping sit him down on a nearby bench. The gasping man happily sits down and nods his thanks. 

“Sorry-- asthma” he pants as John sits beside him. “This dust--” he coughs “i’ll be fine, just inconvenient”

John watches as he pulls an inhaler out of his pocket and presses it to his lips, wheezing in deep breaths of ventolin. 

“Sorry if i scared you” Mike apologises as he pulls the inhaler from his mouth. 

“Oh-- dont be, i just didn't recognise you” John brushes off as he tries to settles his stiff leg against the hard bench.

“I know- i got fat” he smiles in kind towards John's floundering over his words, but it’s true. He’s a larger man than he once was in the classes at uni. “So what’s been happening with you? Last i heard, you were off getting shot at” 

“Got shot” John replies with a grave voice. It’s taken him a long time of worthless therapy sessions to get to grips with understanding that he was a finger width away from being dead and that his life will never be the same, but it still hurts to say it outloud. To proclaim that the one thing he was supposed to avoid struck him right in the shoulder and made his life forever useless to everyone. Including himself.

“What are you doing tonight?” Mike asks in an attempt to move away from disturbing such fresh wounds. 

John contemplates for a moment. What was he doing tonight? What was he doing at anytime? He is a spectre. A ghost. A whisper of a human that does nothing but drift upon the stale air along with the smoke that billows from distant fires and the rancid odour of persistent death. The passing of time means nothing to him. Not really. All he does is wake up and spend the passing hours dreaming of the feel of the sun on his skin, shouting orders at comrades and firing a gun at the enemy. Tonight he’ll probably be sitting back on his bed envisioning a gun in his hand but who would be the ‘enemy’ in his sights?

‘Fuck it’ he thinks. If he is going to bite the bullet it might as well be this one.

“Nothing” he shrugs “no real plans”.

“Excellent!” Mike beams. The wooden bench groans under their combined weight as Mike shifts to look at John more clearly. “Me and a couple other lads were going to head over to The Rising Sun for some drinks, you should come too” he looks at the vacantness of John’s expression “keep your mind off things for a bit, yeah?”

John looks at the sincerity of Mike’s smile. He knows. He can see the anguish in John's eyes and the pain that spikes through his body at random intervals. This isn’t the John Watson he went to school with, played rugby with and studied with. This is a broken man. John knew Mike could see it. Anyone could. 

“Sure” he agrees and feels a flicker of life stir in him as a forceful gust of wind pushes past them like a breath of fresh air.

\--------

He and Mike are standing before a set of large golden gates that lay just before a gigantic house of odd proportions decorated with broken windows and chalk illustrations of everything a drunken mind can think of. The gates are intricate in design, like the gates of heaven. There are delicately crafted golden leaves woven into the framework of trees and flowers and birds and dancing bears and graceful swans and any other magical imagery the creator could summon from their ingenious inspiration. At the top of the gate is a magnificent sun with ethereal rays of light projecting from its core. ‘The House Of The Rising Sun’ is branded at the very top of the golden arches, proclaiming its name to the men and women flooding into its doors. 

Mike nudges John along, willing him to pass under the heavenly arch but feeling as if he was marching toward something that resembled a house of sin. But sin and sanctuary have always been close in some aspects of life, he supposes as they near the wonky front door of the house. 

The interior beyond the front door opens up dramatically to a huge stage area enclosed by two grand staircases on either side which lead to an imposing balcony. The whole room is illuminated by a gigantic chandelier hanging from the rafters, just out of reach from the beautiful girls provocatively calling down to the men and women below. John watches the ladies of velvet dresses and painted lips for a moment, basking in the glow of their sing-song affection before forcing his eyes elsewhere to observe the rest of the marvellous room. He notices that there are doors and hallway everywhere, leading to more rooms and more people. Lights and shadows seem to inhabit every crevice of the house, pouring throughout the groaning woodwork like torrents of molten gold. 

He turns to see Mike has moved on passed the siren call of the prostitutes above and over to the equally inviting charm of the bar that occupies the entire left wall of the room. People are pressing up against each other, shoving and pushing to secure a chance at being served by the staff of women behind the bar. They look like a sea of writhing limbs, waves crashing upon waves, bodies crashing against bodies. John shakes his head of the weird imagery and limps over to where Mike is battling with the torrent of the other intoxicated people to keep his place in line. If there even is a line. One thing John has noticed about Britain after the collapse of modern civilisation is the lack of queuing, and frankly that stung worse than knowing crime has risen to alarming rates alongside the spike in poverty that has left more people starving in the streets than ever before. 

He watches Mike get swallowed up into the crowd of people and sighs. The ache in his leg worsens at the very thought of entering the squirming mass of people, being jostled around in its strong current. He thinks better of it and looks around the house. 

He doesn’t belong here.

This isn’t a place where he can relax. This isn’t a place where he can keep his mind off things. This isn’t a place for him at all. 

He turns around with some difficulty due to the stiffness of his leg and very nearly falls over when he realises a very beautiful young woman is standing extremely close to him. She has gorgeous ebony skin and hair to match which is strung up in a complex design.

“Sorry” she reaches out and helps stabilise John's startled body “didn't mean to startle you”. Her smile is warm and inviting, much like her touch against his bicep. 

“No harm done” John smiles back coyly and plants himself to the floor but doesn’t brush her hand away.

“I thought you looked in pain” she states quietly before removing her hand from his arm and pushing a small vial of clear liquid into his palm “follow me” she beckons. 

John, intrigued with what promised if he followed, trails after the quick steps of the lady through the pulsing crowd and pounding music. He moves as fast as his aching leg and damned cane would allow him. His fist clinging to the tiny glass bottle that was gifted to him as he pushes past the drunken fools and horny bastards.

He navigates his way through the winding corridors and hallways to a small room near the back of this labyrinthian house. The young woman was waiting for him at the end of the corridor, leaning casually against the wooden wall with eyes trained on him as he hobbles towards her. There are still people around him. Men and women of every level of intoxicated, fumbling over each other in varying stages of undress.

“You can go in there” she points to the door on her left “give you some privacy to take that” her eyes sweep down to John's fist which is protectively clenched around the small vial.

“What is it?” he asks wearily as he steps into the offered room. 

“Morphine” the woman smiles as she pushes herself from her perch against the wall. 

John eyes her with suspicion for a long stretch before moving on to scrutinise the clear liquid floating in the minuscule bottle. This couldn't be morphine. Prices for that had skyrocketed ever since the dust clouds from the east. John remembers laying in his hospital bed, clinging onto the illusory relief that the few shots of morphine he was permitted gave him. This couldn’t possibly be morphine. This house be may be praised on its wonders but this couldn’t be one of them. 

“Take it or not… it will just help with the pain” she pauses “there are sterile needles in the draw”.

John looks up to see she’s vanished. He shrugs off the apparent rejection and continues his inspection of the mystery drug. Mind running wild with the need to relieve the incessant agony that courses through his body. He needs. He yearns for just a few moments to numb the claws of misery that encircle him. He shoves the vial into his pocket to try and mute it’s enticing call.

His eyes sweep across the room to the bedside drawer. The suite is dimmer than the grand entrance of the house and smells more like what he would have expected a house of this kind to; sex and alcohol. It’s ingrained into the walls like an extra coat of paint. Overlooking this grimy detail he makes his ways over to the cabinet that sits innocently beside the large four poster bed that is, to John's surprise, clean and untouched. Unlike the rest of this establishment. 

John yanks open the top draw of the cabinet to find multiple stores of surgically packaged needles. His eyes widen in shock. Even the best hospital have minimal access to equipment such as this.

‘They could be fake’ he thinks, its not hard to boil needles and seal them back into the wrapper with some glue and a pinch of skill mixed with a steady hand. 

He picks one up and sits down upon the bed, feeling the weight of it in his hand as he inspects the sharp instrument. His mind screams at him to open the package and indulge in the blessed offering. 

But what if it’s more of a curse? 

His moral code reels with the endless possibilities of what could happen. He doesn’t even know if its morphine! It could be some sort of hallucinogenic or poison or he could overdose or-or-or...

The risk of dying calms him. It soothes him. It silences him into a lulled peacefulness. 

If this were to be the night he died then why not? The world’s gone to shit and he’s hardly worth the time of day to anyone.

He has the packet open and the syringe filled before he can even register that he’s done it. A small voice alerts him to the fact that there is more than enough in the syringe to kill him and he honestly doesn’t care. Smothering the animalistic instinct to survive he begins to roll up his right shirt sleeve. 

Deep in the back of his mind he is screaming. He is terrified and panicking and trying so hard to find a way out of this. To find some excuse to pull out of this but he can’t. He’s tired and useless and he just wants one spark to ignite the life back into him. Or snuff it out. 

“Fuck off!” a man threatens from the doorway and John jerks his head up to see a young man with raven black curls and a salacious outfit to match being slammed against the wall that the young woman was leaning against just moments ago. The boy’s aggressor, a staggeringly drunk man, crowds him up against the woodwork with wandering hands and a stubborn want to get his way. 

“C’mon! Just one kiss” the man slurs as he grips the younger man’s jaw and yanks it to face him.

“I said fuck off!” the man spits as he pulls back and punches the drunkard square on the jaw. The man staggers back as he is caught off guard, giving the young man enough time to slip from his grasp and into the room that John is occupying. The other man’s face lights with a small glimmer of fire in his eyes as John looks up to face him, that is before he is unexpectedly tackled to the ground. 

“You filthy little whore!” The drunkard is back upon the younger man, hurling fists and insults at the prostitutes face “teach you some fucking manners!” He spits- literally spitting- vile words as he manages to get in a a solid punch to the man’s eye. 

John is up like a flash, leaving the syringe on the bed as he leaps into action to help the man in need. He grips the attacker from behind and heaves him off of the black haired man before shoving him to the wall. The inebriated stranger sputters in anger and surprise before John incapacitates him with a swift punch in the nose and and kick in the rib. 

John basks in the sweet sing of the adrenaline coursing through his body. There is no pain in his movement. No lingering ache or agony in his joints. All he feels is the rush of being alive. It’s better than any drug this place could magically supply him. More addictive than any substance in creation.

The huff of pain that comes from the floor snaps him out of his dazed moment of indulgence. Pulling him back into the loud, seedy reality of the house that encloses him. There is a man knocked out by his feet and another man struggling to sit up, clutching his split lip, on the floor behind him. 

He takes a deep breath.

Time to be a doctor again.

Finally. 

“Are you alright?” John asks with concern as he leans down to help the beaten stranger get to his feet. The man nods in reply but the way he grimaces with discomfort as he wipes away the spittle of his attacker doesn’t convince John for a moment. His eye is already swelling shut and his lip is weeping pathetic dribbles of blood down his pale chin, contradicting the exhilaration in his expression seconds before being tackled to the ground. Doctorly instinct forces John to reach up to inspect the beautiful man’s abused face but is quick to pull his hand away when the young man flinches from his fingers.

“I’m a doctor, let me help” John states, feeling small under the scrutinising gaze that the man fixes him with. He may only have one working eye but it didn’t make his piercing glare any less dissecting, as if he was picking John apart like a bug under a microscope.

After a moment of uncomfortably stretched silence, the stranger relives the intensity of his observation and nods before setting off towards the bed, wobbling on adrenaline rushed legs looking like a drunken woman trying out new heels of the dance floor. John follows quietly, taking his time to search the bedside cabinet for some bandages before perching on the edge of the bed beside the stranger.

“This might sting a little” Dr Watson warns before pressing the cloth against the prostitute’s split lip. Inevitably, he winces away from the contact before reaching up and taking the bandage from John's grip to administer the wipe himself.

“Im John by the way” he announces in an attempt to fill the silence that smothers the air around them and the bedsprings groan with the dip of their joint weight. 

“Sherlock” the other man replies, his voice muffled behind the cloth. 

An awkward stretch of uncomfortableness grows between them once again like shadows that lengthen across the world as the dust-covered sun sets behind gloomy horizon. John wants to check Sherlock over for any other injuries but instinct tells him that he needs to take baby steps In order to soothe his obvious shock. He’s shaking like one of the glorious horses that his father owned, the ones that would feel his forceful knuckles and drunken wrath at losing another race. 

He looks away from Sherlock to glance at the unconscious man that was lying flat out on his stomach by the door. He thinks about getting up to check on him and his bleeding nose, which is probably broken, but the sudden touch of a large hand covering his own shakes that thought from his head.

“Mr Woodley will be fine” Sherlock states “he often finds himself blackout drunk on the floor”

“Right” the statement doesn’t convince John that he will be alright but a small voice in the back of his mind tells him that he should just leave him. He attacked this innocent man and left him bloody on the floor. A splintered moustache and an aching face can be his just deserts. 

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock asks, his grey eyes boring a hole into John's with the blazing intelligence. 

“I’m sorry?” John questions. Confusion is written across his face, as plain as day. 

Sherlock smirks.

“Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?” 

“Afghanistan” John blinks in disbelief “sorry how did you--?”

“Oh Sherlock!” a woman’s voice cries from the doorway. 

Both men turn their heads to the tall woman standing above Mr Woodley’s body. She is cloaked in a glorious dress coloured like the midnight sky that clings to her slim figure, complemented deeply by the light of the corridor that shapes the smooth curves of her frame. Her lipstick echoes the red smeared across Sherlock’s and her hair is as black as coal, pinned up in a compacted bun. She looks like an ethereal goddess of the old teachings from some dead culture, her hands casting mystifying shadows against the bedroom walls. 

The woman completely ignores Mr Woodley’s body as she steps over him as if he were rubbish on the street and strides confidently across the room, in her sleek high heels, toward the bed. It’s terrifying how enthralling she is as she approaches with dominating intensity and John has to blink hard to break the spell he fears is being spun around him. 

“Oh, look at your poor face” she pouts, cupping Sherlock’s cheek in her manicured hand. 

“Don’t fuss, i’ve looked worse and you know it” Sherlock whines as he pulls himself from the woman’s touch “just be grateful that the good doctor here was on hand to tend to my war wounds”

“Oh of course” her attention turns toward John “how can i repay this debt of caring for my dear Sherlock, Doctor..?” the beautiful woman grins and flutters her eyelashes. 

“Watson. John Watson” he answers. 

“Adler” she extends her hand hand in greeting “Irene Adler”

John reaches up and shakes her hand which is has a surprisingly strong grip. Out of the corner of his eye he notices Sherlock shift his weight in frustration while giving a short huff, pulling Irene’s attention away from charming the doctor. She extracts her hand out of John's gun trained grip and turns to the bruised man on her right. 

“Well Sherlock, seeing as though you're in no fit state to work you can have the night off” Irene speaks idly whilst inspecting Sherlock’s swollen eye “go on, off to bed with you” she titters, prompting him to get up and move to the door.

John watches him leave without even uttering a ‘thank you’. His rich voice and enchanting eyes are left to haunt John's memory like the ghosts of his fallen army friends that stalk the shadows of his mind. 

“So, Doctor Watson” Miss Adler drawls in a sultry tone “what can i do for you?” 

“Oh, no i couldn’t-- i don’t want to impose” his tongue has gone heavy as his accursed mind spouts unhelpful thoughts of what this stunning woman could do for him. 

“Oh come now, anyone who heroically steps in and saves my employee from unruly patrons is in need of reward” she flashes him a fox-like grin while adjusting the placement of a bracelet wrapped around her wrist “but what could you possibly want?”

Irene pauses, deep in thought, whilst actively ignoring John's sheepish retaliations. 

“A place to spend the night perhaps?” she hums. John chances a quick glance at the unconscious Mr Woodley spread across the floor “oh, not in here, i can offer you a much nicer room that doesn’t smell of piss” she reassures.

John looks back to her alluring face, noticing the intelligent spark in her eye and the expression of pride overshadowing her bold features. She reminds him of a cat in the way she grins at him like prey that is caught in her scrutiny. He is nothing more than a play thing for her to toy with and manipulate. 

“Come along dear doctor” she sticks out her elbow for him to grasp “I shall escort you there myself”

John is unable to find an excuse good enough to refuse such an offer. It’s this or sit alone in the eerie bedsit, counting the moths that bang against the window, demanding entry unlike himself that screams for escape. Firmly he takes hold of the offered elbow and raises to stand. She smiles at him with a predatory grin before setting off toward the door, stepping over the perfectly fine body of Mr Woodley and out into the corridor to navigate the labyrinthian halls of the house.

\----

He is still pressing the cloth against his lip and stubbornly ignoring the ache of his eye as he manoeuvres past the loud and giddy drunkards of the house. He is quick to remove himself from the wandering hands that plague him as he tries to squeeze through the sea of people that stand between him and the alluring call of his bed. He yearns for a cigarette. Or a needle. Or the warm touch of the gentle doctor that smiled so sweetly at him.

The steps creak under his feet as he hastily sneaks past his fellow co-workers that lean against the railings, calling down to their adoring public below, like angels bestowing promises of divine elevation for an hour or two. For the right price of course. 

Sherlock snorts at the idea. There is nothing angelic about these girls apart from their beauty. 

His bedroom is gloriously silent, well it’s not technically his bedroom. He shares the massive dressing chamber/ sleeping quarters with all the other girls in the house, like one big happy family. He glances up to the many balconies that climb higher and higher above him that accommodate his female companions before heading over to the farthest corner of the room towards his bed. 

Hidden behind a large vanity screen of french manufacture is a luxurious double bed that is layered with quilts of fine Egyptian cotton, a desk littered with tobacco packets and stab marks from a Sgian-dubh dagger that is currently lodged into the mahogany. Sherlock aloofly pushes past the hand carved vanity screen and flops down on the bed with a relaxed sigh. 

He stares up at the cow skull sporting a set of headphones, that is mounted upon the wall above his head. He groans with the thought of having to scrub off the train wreck that is his make up. He honestly can’t be arsed. Another groan escapes him as his mind alerts him to the notion of removing it in the morning. His eyes flick to the skull that is perched on the windowsill of the large, round window that occupies the majority of the wall to his right, mind drowning in the sudden crushing need for what is stashed away within its cranium. 

Cocaine.

A hazy buzz of want infects him with the promise of a top up of his desired confectionery of chemicals. His body feels worn thin by the events of the past hours and he can’t tolerate the pressurised feeling of emerging back into sobriety. Into reality. 

He no longer feels weightless in the throws of its alluring intoxication. Instead feeling sluggish and slow as his brain comes to a lethargic halt. He feels weighted and encumbered, as if a boulder is slowly sinking down onto his chest.

His hand absently reaches up to stroke his bottom lip, wincing as he brushes over the open wound. The sting of his touch lingers for a few moments, grounding him like a firm hand to his wrist, tethering his drifting consciousness back to reality. Focusing him on the events that revolved around this wound.

Focusing on the memory of John Watson. 

He can still feel the softness of his touch upon his arm as he offered comfort and curtesy. He remembers how John's touch burned through his clothes and imprinted into his skin. He bites his lip in selfish indulgence as his body buzzed with reignited excitement just by being centre of the military man’s attention. It was like an adolescent fantasy coming to life, although it hasn’t ended with the soldier sharing his company and his bed. 

He huffs in annoyance at the abrupt dead end of his idle appeasement and rolls onto his stomach, turning away from the temptation of his hidden stash of cocaine. 

He has a much stronger intoxication to send him to sleep.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little Christmas treat from me to you!

Sunlight is his alarm clock.

A strong beam of light coming from the window hits his face and stubbornly refuses to be destroyed by the dust clouds that surround it. Sherlock huffs in annoyance at the rude awakening and buries his head deeper down into the pillows, trying to hang onto the deep throws of sleep.

“Ellie that’s my hairbrush!”

He groans at the exclamation and the growing murmur of conversation happening just beyond his vanity screen. With a sickly feeling, he peels his face away from the mountain of pillows, cursing how intolerable mornings are, especially when feeling like crap.

The inside of his skull throbs with ache from his black eye. Face feeling tacky with the old makeup still caked upon his skin and he feels the shakes in his hands coming on. 

Brilliant.

Sitting up with abhorrence, he blinks hard against the brightness of the room. He can’t remember a day where he was woken up by sun streaking through his window. It feels odd. Unnatural. 

With guarded caution he casts a glance over to the mirror sitting upon the desk beside him and gasps. 

He’s a mess. His beautiful face is smeared with eyeliner, lip gloss, blood and a hulking bruise that is occupying the entirety of his right eye socket. Gingerly, he touches it and hisses at the blunt pain that rushes through his face. 

A whine of annoyance builds at the back of his throat at the thought of having to wash and paint over the bruise. But needs must, he supposes, before hopping out of bed. 

His clothes, still kept on from the night before, act as a warm reminder of his comfy bed as the chill of the room nips at his ankles. Shivering slightly, he adorns the blue silk dressing gown that hangs over the top of the vanity screen and sits at his desk, eyeing his reflection in the mirror. 

They have a staring competition for a while. Mirrored blue eyes glaring back at his piercing gaze, taking in the slight wince from the right, before grabbing a wipe from the nearby packet and gets to work. 

The pressure on his battered face hurts and his lip stings under his ministrations but it has to be done. He has to clean away the evidence of his rough night and paint the beauty back onto his features. To reinforce the mask of grace and elegance that he wears every night as a smokescreen. Camouflaging him. Protecting him. 

Now stripped bare he looks ghastly. Raven curls are sticking up in odd angles and his bruise is a sickly yellow colour with deep purple speckles scattered across it. Sherlock pouts as he inspects his pitiful reflection. Feeling ugly and cheap, like some sort of harlot that skulks by the docks in search of a warm body to scrounge off of. 

“Rise and shine, sleeping beauty!” a thick Irish accent sings as the vanity screen in yanked back to reveal a woman with long umber coloured hair hanging low on her shoulders. Sherlock snaps his head up to look at her and despises the shock in her gaze as she spots his mottled eye and injured lip. 

“Don’t stare” he scorns “it’s rude”

“I’m sorry but-- i mean, i heard you had another run in with Mr Woodley but i didn’t think it was this bad” she muses while parking herself on the edge of his bed.

Sherlock mumbles a response, more focused on brushing his hair back into delicate curls.

“Lidia told me that a man had come to your rescue” she hints, taking pride in seeing his eyes flick up to gaze at her in the mirror. 

“Stop prying” he warns.

“Come on Sherl, i need something to gossip about!” she moans while flopping down on the bed. “The only thing that was remotely interesting this week was that Addison had another row with her boyfriend- but if you ask me Richard’s more of a regular that’s just got anger issues”

“Oh course Richard is just a regular, he was eyeing me just a couple days ago” Sherlock snorts, his tongue mindlessly fiddling with his split lip, not remotely caring about Addison’s relationship trouble,“and what can you possibly gossip about from me being cleaned up by a doctor?”

“A doctor, hmm? was he handsome?” she sits up from her idle lounging on the bed, interest peaked.

“Go away Janine” he grumbles from his seat, not even bothering to look away from the array of cosmetics that he had pulled out from the cabinet.

“Lidia said he was very handsome” she continues to pry, undeterred by his impatient tone. “And strong and-”

Sherlock shoots her an icy glare, raising a please giggle from her as she finally strikes the right chord to get a reaction out out of him. Sherlock hates that he’s let himself slip into her game so quickly. What would Mycroft think-

No. He’d rather not think of the pompous prick that is his brother and his cowardice.

Sherlock scoffs and turns back to his make up, hands twitching with the need for a cigarette. 

“It’s alright to have a little crush, Sherl” Janine coos from the bed, trying to settle his temper that is currently rolling in like a thunderstorm. 

“I do not have a crush” he snaps, annoyance growing stronger. “But i admit he had handsome features” he mutters quietly, as if he is reassuring himself rather than Janine.

“Well if you’re so sure” She stares at him through the surface of the mirror, a smug grin tugging at the corner of her mouth. Slowly she pushes herself up from the bed and saunters past him, their eyes tracking each other in the mirror as she goes. Then going on to move the vanity screen, with more fanfare than needed, to rest against the wall to leave. 

She forgets to put it back.

Sherlock rolls his eyes at her childishness but refuses to get up. Refuses to let her know that she’s annoyed him, even if it was all in the name of friendly japery. 

———

The rest of his morning is spent delicately painting over his imperfections in peace, apart from the irritating chatter of his coworkers as they go about their morning routines. His black eye is now completely submerged under a layer of concealer, hiding the fragility of his transport beneath the cold, calculating mask he has built for himself. He smiles. 

“Good morning darlings” Irene calls from somewhere behind him. He doesn’t bother to turn to look at her, his hair is still an unruly mess and frankly he isn’t in the mood for any more needless social interaction today. “I’ve sent Wiggins in to clear out the stragglers, when he’s done you can go out and set up--” she stops abruptly. Sherlock turns to see what has caught her attention so suddenly. 

“Beggin’ your pardon my ladyship but its Jenkins again” Wiggins is loitering in the doorway, shyly avoiding looking too far into the room lest he catch a glimpse of the girls while indecent. It’s unbecoming of a gentleman to surprise a woman in her undergarments, down right disrespectful. “He’s refusing--”

“Refusing to leave?” Irene interrupts and her expression drops at the nod of agreement Wiggins supplies “of course he is…”

She pauses with a sigh as her eyes dart around the room, until finally landing upon Sherlock. “Go on Sherlock, it’s your turn” she grins. 

An abhorrent groan escapes him as his eyes flicker over toward where Janine is perched upon her own bed. 

“Please?” He pleads at her from across the room. Twisting his expression to be as sweet and vulnerable as a lost puppy, trying his best at bending her to his will. 

“No way! I’m not getting touched up by a horny old dude this early in the morning just because you’ve got a poorly face” she quips, rousing a small orchestra of giggles from the other girls.

Sherlock rolls his eyes and mutters several curses under his breath while rising from his seat with practised elegance, silk dressing gown pooling around his feet. He strides off towards the door, ignoring the jokes and jibes thrown his way by his tittering colleagues, throwing his head up high and soldiers on. 

\-----

Wooden floorboards groan under John's feet as he tries his best to sneak down the corridor. He’s been trying to find his way out for the past hour but every corner just provides new hallways full of doors and stairs that branch off in every direction.

Indecisively he chooses to wander down another corridor, unable to shake the feeling of being watched as he eyes yet another haunting portrait. The icy tendrils of his imagination forces poignant analogies of being trapped in the halls of purgatory into the forefront of his sleep sick mind. Perhaps, once he had stepped past those heavenly gates he was unknowingly doomed to walk these hall in sin and misery for the Devil’s pleasure. The alluring grin of the woman that offered him shelter at the drop of a hat flashes before his mind--

He shakes his head of the ludicrousness of his imagination. He was simply lost. No supernatural forces playing behind it whatsoever. 

The floorboards continue to squeak under his weight as he reaches the top of a spiral staircase.

In the morning’s light he had woken up alone in a stranger’s bed, sat up and scrubbed the sleep from his eyes before heaving himself out of the comforting embrace if the duvet, cursing the chill that nipped at his ankles as he dressed himself. Stumbling across the bedroom floor while adjusting his shirt did his thoughts wander back to the events of last night and the enchanting sharpness of Sherlock’s eyes. His memory elicits the shifting blues and greens and greys of his iris’ in the dim light as he inspected John with a burning intensity. 

A sigh escapes John's lips as he remembers the alert interest in Sherlock’s expression as he questioned John about his war. How he had quirked his lips and leaned forward with keen interest at his own supernatural knowledge. 

He reaches the bottom of the stairs and finds himself stranded between a hallway leading toward two entry ways. Turning his head to the left he hears an abrupt shout come from the right. 

Adrenaline spikes through his veins at the sudden outburst, his hand instinctively reaching to the back of his waistband for the gun he never leaves home without. It’s cool metal snugly resting beneath his clothes like a sleeping dragon, fully prepared to kill when called into action. 

His head whips around to investigate the hallway to his right, seeking out the source of the startled cry. Disgruntled mutterings from beyond the corridor catches his attention, steering his gaze toward one of the multiple doors that populate the shadowy hallway and takes a hesitant step forward. 

“Mr Jenkins” a familiar voice quips with an exasperated tone “i would like it if you’d kindly remove your hand from the inside of my thigh” 

John feels a weird tug of jealousy spark in his chest as he hears the statement. His cautious pace turns to something quick, almost a march as he makes his way to the only illuminated door, like a soldier preparing for battle.

Preparing to save Sherlock again. 

He stops in the doorway, an expression of shock growing on his face as he takes in the scene before him. 

Inside the room, tucked away in the far corner is an elderly man receiving help from three men. One he recognises instantly from the ebony curls and milky skin, Sherlock. The other men however were strangers, one tall and scruffy with heavy bags loitering under his eyes, the other was very young and very small, with chocolate curls and bright blue eyes. If John didn’t know any better he would have thought that he was a child-- but how on earth would a child get into this establishment. 

“That’s a nice suggestion, my dear, but i would like it more if you’d remove your clothes--” the old man states as his hand makes a non-discrete attempt at grabbing Sherlock’s arse “they’re in the way” 

John watches as Sherlock grips the old man’s wrist and yanks it away from his backside before stomping out of Mr Jenkins’ reach. He huffs noisily through his nostrils and clenches his fists in muted anger before re-joining the other men in their attempt to get the elderly man to his feet.

“Ah, Doctor Watson, excellent timing” Irene’s voice calls out from the other side of the room. John startles at the sudden announcement of her presence in the room. Sherlock and the other men turn to look at where he stands in the doorway, to which John can’t help but notice the small flicker of a smile that passes across Sherlock’s face as their eyes meet. The spell is broken between them when Sherlock has to pull away from Mr. Jenkins’ wandering hands once again. “perhaps you can help the boys escort Mr. Jenkins off the property?”

John is quick to nod his head in agreement. Maybe it was just his strong moral compass of wanting to make sure an elderly man is escorted outside comfortably or just the overpowering doctorly instinct to help, but John couldn't help feeling the need to remove the old pervert’s hands from Sherlock’s body. 

He barges in between Sherlock and the other lads, eyeing the seemingly feeble old man with suspicion. The scruffy lad by his side makes a small chuckling sound under his breath as he watches John assess the situation. Peering up at him past the rim of his spectacles, the elderly man flashes a toothy grin, hidden by his long wispy beard. Silently daring John to try and move him. Goading the soldier on.

John takes a moment to think before taking in a large breath. The other men and Irene watch in suspense as the Doctor bends down and collects the old man into his arms. A groan escapes John's lips as he stands up straight, carrying the elderly man like a bride. Mr Jenkins is not pleased with the sudden end to his inebriated fun and makes his anger known by flailing around in John's grip like a trapped bird. 

John stubbornly ignores him.

Sherlock, Irene and the other boys hang around the doorframe like loitering flys as they wait to direct John, and the unruly man in his arms, towards the exit. Even with the added weight of the squirming Mr Jenkins, John finds walking no trouble as he sets off with the others, following their guidance through their labyrinthian house.

At some point during their walk through the long halls and twisted corridors Irene departs, feeling that they have it under control. John's memory flutters to life every so often as they pass a statue that he is sure he had seen in the corridor they had just exited, or even at hearing a squeak of the floorboard that rings as faint bell in his mind. Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice however as he continues to stare straight ahead, moving out of the struggling reach of the disgruntled Mr Jenkins, or maybe he just doesn’t care that it looks like they are going in circles. 

Looking at Sherlock’s nonchalant expression John finally notices that his face looks unbothered by bruises and a split lip. It takes him a moment to realise that he is bothered by them but they are hidden beneath the skill of a makeup brush. The small winces at every blink giving away his seemingly painless facade.

John opens his mouth to comment on the ache that is written across Sherlock’s face but is distracted by the abrupt feeling of emptiness in his arms. He looks away from Sherlock’s deceivingly perfect skin to see Mr Jenkins being helped down the porch steps, onto the grassy lawn, by the young curly haired lad. 

“John!” Mike is waiting underneath the golden arch of the front gate, waving to him. 

John waves back. The weight of knowing he actually has to leave drops down upon him like a guillotine. The idea of leaving had been a faint whisper hidden amongst the louder, more alluring noises of the house. He had felt as if the house was blinding him, drawing him in closer to its centre. It was only the sunlight that had pulled the blindfold from his senses, not realising how dark the house had been until he was suddenly bathed in the light of the clouded sun. 

John turns to look at Sherlock, wanting to see how his eyes shine in the brightness.

He’s gone. 

John swings his head left and right, searching for the beautiful man. He’s vanished. Disappeared into the darkness of the house like a shadow, slipping away from his company silently like the night before. 

John pinches his brow in muted frustration. 

Wiggins is standing to John's left. Brooding quietly in an attempt to be intimidating but John just huffs a smile. He’s seen more intimidating scarecrows.

He steps out from under the wonky door way onto the porch, into the dust choked atmosphere as it pools around him. Drowning him as he wades further away from the house’s protection. 

Inside the house he had felt smothered but out here he feels choked. The air is stale and stagnant and static. The familiar lingering of dread hangs around him in the dry atmosphere but it isn’t as daunting as it usually is.

He shakes his head. His thoughts are too poetic for the brokenness of a throwaway soldier. 

His father would slap him for partaking in such feminine, emotional ways of thinking. 

No. He refuses to think of the bloody knuckles and drunken rants that was his father.

He moves over to Mike, completely ignoring the lusciousness of the crimson roses as he passes them by.

\-----

“Archie” Sherlock calls to the boy from his desk. 

He saw him run past the dressing room door in the reflection of his mirror as he was lighting a cigarette. Closing his eyes at the first intake, savouring the sweet tang of nicotine as it invades his lungs. His hands are still shaking.

Archie pokes his head into the doorway, waiting for the all clear. He’s been scolded too many times by Irene that he can’t barge into the girls room without permission. It’s disrespectful, as Wiggins says. 

Sherlock open his eyes, blowing out a cloud of smoke in an illusion of effortless grace and beckons him in. Some of the girls are lounging around in their underwear but they won’t care about Archie’s presence. He’s only going to be here for a few moments.

“Where were you going in such a hurry?” Sherlock asks between drags of his cigarette.

“Lady Adler wanted me to send a letter” Archie smiles, his eyes flickering from Sherlock’s face to the bottom draw of the bedside desk; that’s where he keeps the gingernuts.

Sherlock follows his eyes and smiles.

“Tell me to whom the letter is going to and i’ll let you have two biscuits” promises Sherlock as he billows another plume of smoke like a pristine dragon. 

Archie’s face drops. Sherlock does feel a small pang of sympathy for his small, conflicted brain but he needs to return something. Something important.

“I’m not allowed” The boy whines. 

“Irene won’t know” he stubs out his cigarette into a glass ashtray “i promise” 

Archie pouts as he thinks. His small face displays the inner workings of his mind like a projector. It is fascinating to watch. 

His eyes dart to the bottom of the desk again; he’s thinking of the gingernuts.   
He glances down at his satchel; he’s thinking of the letter.  
His fingers tighten around the strap of his bag; now he’s thinking of the consequences if he breaks the rules set by Irene.  
Archie glances up to Sherlock; he doesn’t want to disappoint him.  
He glances back down to the bottom draw; he’s thinking of the gingernuts again.

“Go on, i’ll help you” Sherlock opens the draw to reveal the packet of biscuits “is the letter addressed to a Doctor Watson perchance?”

“That’s cheating” Archie scolds. Sherlock grins.

“I want you to give him this when you deliver the letter” Sherlock gets up from his chair to lean over his bed and digs under the mountain of pillows that occupy the headboard, pulling out a metal cane. John's cane. “He left this here and i think he’d miss it sorely”

“Why was it in your bed?” Archie takes the cane as it’s pushed into his hands. Sherlock ignores him as he plucks a small note from the corner of his mirror. 

“This” he presents the folded note before the child’s eyes “is for the Doctor’s eyes only” he tucks it into the side of Archie’s satchel “don’t read it”

“I promise” Archie reaches for the biscuits. Sherlock lets him take one but the second is slapped from his hand. 

“You said i could have two!” Archie cries.

“You get the second one when you’ve done the job” Sherlock informs, his foot snapping the draw shut. He sits down on his chair and picks up his eyeliner “now be gone with you”

He watches Archie roll his eyes in the mirror before rushing off out of the door. Sherlock smirks.

\-----

The knock on his door comes as a surprise. 

It was too soft not to be his angry landlord and Ravagers didn’t have enough manners to knock, they’d just break the door down and take what they want. 

The knock puts him on edge. 

He gets up from the single bed and makes his way across the tiny room. It’s a total of five steps from the bed to the door. John knows that off by heart. He’s paced this room so many times the number of steps are etched into the wall of his mind. 

The weight of the gun snug in his hand. Familiar and secure. 

He looks through the peephole, expecting to see an ugly face of a new enemy staring right back at him. The grip on his weapon tightens with the expectancy of a challenging advisory waiting for him just beyond the panel of wood. 

The hallway is empty.

He groans. With the fall of society, one would think that people wouldn’t have time for such meaningless pranks such as Knock Down Ginger. Christ, he remembers playing that with Bill Murray from next door when his mum would force him to play outside. 

It had only dawned on him a few years ago that she wasn’t actually concerned with how much time he was spending inside but rather protecting him from his drunk father who was literally coming in through the front door as he was being pushed out the back. 

The knock comes again, startling John out of his oppressive memories. 

John growls, not sure whether if it’s directed at the continuation of this silly prank or at the unresolved family issues that fester in his past.

There’s another knock, a little bit firmer this time.

John yanks the door open, pissed off. 

He stalls at the wide eyes of the young boy he met that morning staring up him, a little bit scared. John tucks his gun back into the waistband of his trousers.

“Hello?” John greets warily. He watches the boy bounce back from the rough greeting as he digs into his worn, leather satchel.

“Good evening Doctor Watson, this is from the Lady Adler” he presents a crisply folded letter with blood red wax seal in the shape of a fox head. 

John takes the letter from him. The paper feeling weightless and deluxe in his calloused hand. It’s probably the most expensive stationary he’s handled ever since he got a letter from the Queen, thanking him for his service while he laid in a bed, dreaming of the war and dying of sepsis. 

“--and this is from Mister Holmes” the young lad hands him a small folded scrap of paper and his cane. John’s eyes widen with surprise at the realisation he had left it behind. He shifts his weight from one hip to the other, breathing a surprised gasp of laughter at the painless ease of it. 

“Thank you” John looks up to see that the boy has disappeared. He’s too exhilarated to even care that he’s probably been standing in his doorway, shifting his weight from foot to foot like a complete loon, he steps back into his sorry excuse of a flat, shutting the door behind him before leaning back against it. An ecstatic grin widening upon his face with joyous emotions getting clogged in his throat. The urge overtakes him to throw his cane to the floor and he can’t help but release a soft huff of laughter as it clatters at his feet. 

John feels the small note curl in his fingers as he relaxes against the door. Curiosity fills him as he pulls it close to read, completely forgetting about the pristine letter from the Ladyship. Delicately he unfolds the note to read “thank you” scrawled across the page. 

John just continues to giggle against his front door, feeling like he’s able to take the first clear breath in a long time


	3. Chapter 3

Dear Doctor Watson, 

In light of the past twenty-four hours which you spent in my establishment, you not only helped protect and care for one of my employees, you then went on to further your usefulness by escorting an unruly customer from the grounds.

Therefore i have had an idea regarding you and potential employment in my establishment. I offer you a window between five o’clock and six today to visit me in my office at the Rising Sun to discuss this opportunity. If you miss the time set i will take that as an answer for you wishing not to be under my employ and the offer will be terminated. 

I look forward to meeting you again, 

Kind regards,

Irene Adler X

Ps. the job position is for security, not prostitution. In case you were worrying...or intrigued.

John stares at the letter in his lap with a look disbelief and curiosity, a smile ghosting across his lips. The scent of strong perfumes, the same as the Ladyship wore the night before, fills his nostrils as it wafts from the paper. He can feel his pulse raise at the minute thought of returning to that house. To its atmosphere and mysteriously beautiful staff. 

He glances up at the clock. 

Its ten to five.

“Bloody hell” John curses as he leaps to his feet, searching for essentials; keys, phone, wallet, gun, cane-- wait, no. not cane. Not anymore.

As he shuts the apartment door behind him he can’t help but be mesmerised at the ease of his movement. Smiling like a child on Christmas at every painless step. 

He even skips down the stairs just for the hell of it, although he was certain to make sure there were no witnesses. He may be happy but he’s not going to make a fool of himself. 

\---

 

The gates are gleaming golden light as John strolls underneath them. It’s quiet, very quiet. Nothing like it was the night before, when it was packed with addicts streaming in from every direction, in need of their fix. 

Now it is barren. Not a soul in sight as he briskly walks up to the wonky front door. The weak breeze that drifts by him is the only indication that the world is indeed still turning, rather than being frozen in a desolate oil painting hung in God’s gallery.

Christ, he needs to stop reading dreary novels before bed.

Inside, the house creaks with the wind. His eyes are drawn to the massive chandelier that continues to gleam with candle light as it hangs above the entrance way. 

“Can i help you?” a high, feminine voice asks from behind him. John nearly jumps out of skin as he flinches to look over his shoulder to see a short, brown haired woman staring up at him expectantly. 

“Oh, yes” he answers, turning to face her fully, taking in the petiteness of her figure and mousey demeanour. She’s wearing very little makeup but the little splash of colour that comes from the Rose lipstick coating her thin lips. She looks too innocent to be here. “I was called here by Miss Adler”

He pulls the letter from his pocket and presents it to her. Instantly she takes it from his hand and inspects the document, her eyes scanning the words diligently as she mouths the words. 

“Ah yes, Doctor Watson” she beams. There’s a lipstick stain on her teeth. “The Ladyship has been expecting you”

The dainty woman walks toward a hallway that leads to the right of the house before turning to look over her shoulder “please follow me” 

John walks to her side and keeps close as they navigate through the jigsaw of halls, doors and abstract art. Just like the marble statue of a man cutting the heart out of a deer at the top of the landing or the portrait of a man crowded by magpies that hangs oddly in the middle of a barren hallway. John gazes at the man’s soulless eyes as he passes alongside the quiet woman. He’s sure that the magpie man’s eyes are following him as he walks by. 

“Don’t worry” the woman beside him pipes up “that painting gives everyone the creeps”

“Oh good, thought i was going crazy with his eyes following me” John chuckles, following her stride down a flight of large oaken stairs. 

“That’s how he makes everyone feel” she smiles with a high tone, finally beginning to break out of her shell. “I’m Molly, by the way” 

“And you know who i am” he retorts, meeting her the bottom of the stairs, waiting before a large oak door marked with golden illustrations of rearing horses and fighting hares. His mother used to needlepoint tapestries depicting such illustrations when she wasn’t busy patching up holes in his trousers or sewing pockets into Harry’s dresses. Even though Harry hated wearing Dresses, she was much more absorbed in stealing his jeans. 

“She’s waiting for you in there” Molly states before climbing back up the stairs, out of sight. The staff of this establishment must have a thing about saying goodbye or something.

John shakes his head and enters.

\-----

Irene lifts her head up with a look of surprise from where she was fussing with a calico cat that is lounging upon her desk. Her presentation is immaculate; robed in a tight satin dress that sweeps across her shoulder like a serpent. Her ebony hair is pulled into a tight bun that frames her sharp face and blood red lips. 

“Doctor Watson...” She glances at the clock “i was beginning to lose hope in seeing you” 

John walks further into the room, closing the door behind him as he strolls over to the large desk in the centre of the room. The office is bathed in warm light from the combination of a roaring fire and multiple lamps that occupy every corner of the room. There are no windows. 

How far into the heart of the house are they?

“Sorry about that, the delivery was a little late” he apologises, watching the calico cat struggle to sit up on the desk “but i hope the offer hasn’t been terminated”

“Of course not” 

Irene scratches behind that cat’s ears as it purrs loudly. “Please, sit” she gestures to the vacant red leather chair that sits between him and the mahogany desk. 

He sits. She smiles. 

The cat chirps happily at his arrival before hopping lamely over to where he sits, dragging the hind left leg behind her like dead weight. A look of confusion clouded over his face as he observed her struggle. Her black and orange head bumps against his outstretched hand with a soft ‘murrp’ of joy.

“She got her leg caught in a rabbit snare when she was young, chewed her foot loose to escape” Irene states “she limped all the way home in the snow, i couldn’t believe it as i watched her hobble across the field in the blizzard”

John looks up at Irene to see her eyes linger on the cat nuzzling at his knuckles before drawing her penetrating gaze up to meet John's. “Do you have pets?” 

“Yes--well they weren’t mine they were my father’s, he bred race horses” 

“Oh really? Southern Crest or Cedar Pond?”

John coughs into his hand, feeling a bit uncomfortable about talking about his father.

“Southern Crest, his mix up of mares gave them their prize winner, Lady Luck” 

“I thought i recognised the name, your father once lost a bet to my mother and got so angry he punched a hole into our dining room wall” she muses. John worries his lip through his teeth. 

“That was him alright, betting more than he could and getting angry about it later”

“He was a prick” she spits.

“Oh definitely” a genuine smile widens over his face even as his heart sinks at the thought of all the money and happiness that drunken bastard sucked from his life. From his mother. From his sister. From his family.

The cat chirps as she butts her head against his hand, playfully licking at his fingers with her brillow-pad tongue.

The Ladyship stands with effortless grace from her large throne-like chair. She stalks over to the decanter that stands in the far right corner of the room, her dress swanning after her like a shark trailing after the scent of blood. 

“Scotch? Whiskey?” she lifts the large bottles up to her face, studying labels.

“Whiskey will be fine” John agrees “thank you” 

The cat purrs loudly at him, pawing at him for attention since he had so rudely stopped running his fingers through her short, soft fur.

“Mittens stop bothering our guest” Irene scolds as she saunters back over to her desk with a large bottle of Talisker whiskey and two Waterford crystal glasses in hand. The cat doesn’t desist in her pursuit for attention.

As Irene sits back down into her wing-backed chair she shoos the cat away with a swat to her tail and places the glasses upon the desk. John watches as the cat speeds over to the edge of the desk before leaping onto the carpet and stalking over to a closed door at the back of the room. 

“Sorry about that, she just loves attention” Irene sighs, watching as the door opens for the cat before closing again. John's eyes lift in surprise- how many people are hiding in this house?   
The slamming of paper against the desk pulls him from his deep thought of who could possibly be residing behind that door. He jumps in his seat before glancing up at the grinning woman. “right, let’s get to business” 

She pushes the thick wad of paper toward him across the wooden table top, a small glint begins to shine in her eye. He huffs inwardly at his paranoia. 

John takes the documents in hand, scanning through the requirements and rules of his offered opportunity.

“It’s mostly just tiresome safety regulations” she sighs, pouring the honey coloured whiskey into the crystal glasses.

“So what would you narrow it down to being?” he inquiries, setting the paper aside and folding his hands on top of the desk.

Irene grins, leaning back into her chair. Leaving the freshly poured whiskey on the desk. 

“You may indulge in any offered substance or service as long as you are off duty” her gaze sharpens “that means you cannot be pissed. You can’t be high and you cannot be balls deep in one of the girls when you are needed on the floor”

John feels his face heat with a rising blush at the last comment. 

Irene ignores this and continues.

“You must respect my staff, they may be whores but they are people first” there is a minuet pause for John to object. He doesn't. “And finally you must know the difference between inebriated playfulness and violence, i can’t have you tossing out customers that are just having a good time” 

“Those don’t seem like a problem” John shrugs. 

“Excellent” she leans forward in her seat, resting her elbows on the table. It’s a rather intimidating “you will work six days a week, doing night patrols of the rooms and ensuring everyone is happy,

“You will also be needed in the morning to help clean up and kick out the hungover stragglers like our beloved Mr. Jenkins, whom you met this morning” she pauses for a moment, reaching for the glasses of Talisker. “Sundays are seen as a holy day here and so the house is shut, that will be your day off as it is for everyone else. You will receive a pay of £4.38 per hour which is of course thrown in with free lodgings and food”

She takes a moment to run her finger over the rim of the glass before glaring at him square in the eye “will any of these conditions be a problem for you?”

No! Oh god no. He craves the thrumming of danger that purpose that pulses through the house like a heartbeat, feeding off of the souls of every person that walks its halls. It’s energy is like the whole war contained behind the wonky walls, its creaks are the shots of bullets and its groans are the screams of the dying. He needs it. Yearns for it like he yearns for the sun warming his face and a strong breeze to caress his skin. 

“No-- no, it sounds wonderful” says John with a cheery smile.

“Excellent” Irene grins while reaching for the discarded documents. Quickly she flicks through the pages to find the a certain sheet of paper before handing it to John along with a fine point fountain pen “sign here and your employment will be official”

John jots down his signature on the dotted line but before the ink could even dry the paper is being snatched from his reach and the Talisker is thrust under his nose.

“A celebratory drink” she winks, taking a moderate sip of the liquid gold.

“Cheers” John lifts the glass to his lips, his nose taking in the crisp sharpness of the drink before his taste buds get the chance. 

The drink is bitterly acute across his tongue, burning his throat as he swallows. He struggles to keep down a cough as he places the half-empty glass back on the desk. 

It’s one of the best drinks he’s ever had. Far better than the cheap spirits that he and Harry would swipe from his father’s daunting liquor cabinet. 

“Good?” the woman before him smirks, swirling the liquor around her own glass.

“Very good”

Eagerly he lifts the glass up to his lips for another sip, awaiting another burst of fiery flavour, however the sudden slam of a door bursting open jerks him away from the promise of the golden drink.

“Irene! Sherlock stole my cowboy boots again-!” a woman’s disgruntled shout is cut short. John turns to see the young woman stood in the doorway, resembling a deer caught in headlights “i’m sorry, i didn’t realise you had company”

The young woman turns sheepish. Her glorious honey coloured hair hangs low upon her shoulders and her attire is a short lavender dress, speckled with white and gold flecks, that hugs her body, complementing her golden skin. 

“Addison, my dear, you know as well as i do that due to you sharing the same shoe size as Sherlock he is entitled to borrow your shoes” Irene’s tone is impeccably calm and clipped as she scolds the young lady.

“Your ladyship, i know that but there is a fine line between borrowing them and stealing them--he doesn’t even ask anymore!” Addison groans, remaining in the doorway “I'm convinced he’s still got my red Stilettos hidden somewhere in that little rat-nest of his” 

“Well then darling, i suggest you either hide your shoes more carefully or just take something of his” lazily Irene takes another sip of her drink. 

Addison takes a moment to contemplate the proposed solution to her problem, staring at the floor and then back up to Irene. Completely ignoring John as he watches the whole process from his chair, feeling like the spectator of a play. 

“I’ll take his violin” she states with a bold look of defiance “that’ll really piss him off” 

“Just be warned that i won’t be dealing with any bigger fights that arise from this” Irene warns. 

Addison shrugs. 

John huffs a breath of laughter before taking another sip of whiskey. 

“Well if that is everything you wished to walk to me about Addison, then would you mind escorting Doctor Watson down to the Baker suit?”

“He’s the one that broke Mr Woodly’s nose?” she gapes in astonishment.

John coughs into this glass at the sudden exclamation, taking in a larger swallow than he was expecting.

“The very same” Irene answers for him. John is still trying hard to fight the burn of the whiskey.

“I couldn’t believe it when Jenny told me that Lexi overheard that Tamara saw you take him out like a superhero!” the young lady giggles “i’ve always wanted to give him a swift backhander but i’m sure he’d find it funny in some way”

“Well i’m just happy i could help” his voice croaks. 

“Doctor Watson will be the new member of security” Irene states as she collects the now empty glasses from her desk. 

“You mean he will be the only member of security, Wiggins doesn’t exactly do much except walk around” she scoffs. 

John isn’t even shocked by the statement going by how Sherlock was left to his own form of defence while fending off the rowdy Mr Woodley. Or that even the frail form of Mr Jenkins was a bit too much trouble for them to handle. 

John didn’t care. He just wanted purpose again. A chance to be seen as useful, even if it’s just acting as a lowly security guard in a house that practiced deviancy of every form. 

“Be that as it may, Doctor Watson still needs to be taken down to the Baker suit” the pristine woman argues, screwing the cap back onto the glass bottle. “So if you please be so kind…?” 

“Oh yes- of course” Addison nods her approval “c’mon Doc” 

John stands, ignoring the slight rush in his head before turning to Irene with an outstretched hand. She shakes it with a grin.

“Thank you” says John as he pulls away from the desk.

“The pleasure is all mine” the woman purrs, watching him as ambles over to Addison. 

The young lady lingering in the doorway offers him a cheery smile as they take off down the hall to the right of the office door.

The corridor is long and dark with the structural design similar to the hull of a creaking ship. The house groans as if waves were gently lapping at its wooden exterior, tenderly rocking the house into its mystical daze. Addison is marching with a spring in her step and a warm smile to match, he can’t help but feel drawn into her sunny personality like the moon caught in the Earth’s gravity.

“Where exactly are we going?” John questions as they walk down yet another flight of stairs, how far down did this place actual go? 

“Oh! Yes of course! I am taking you down to the Baker suit, this is where you’re going to live- of course you’re going to want to collect items from your old living quarters but the Ladyship will send for someone to do that anyway”

John thinks for a moment about his dreary flat that never really contained anything more personal than a toothbrush. His rent is paid to the end of the month anyway. So no big rush.

“That’s fine...all i want is my journal” John mumbles. 

Addison pulls on his arm as they turn down another hall, passing an unsettlingly large stuffed black hound with a fearsome expression and ruby red eyes. Shivers take down his spine as if it were the beast’s alarmingly large claws ghosting over his back, putting the fear of the devil in him. 

Everything in this house put the fear of the devil in him. 

‘Which is stupid’ John thinks, finally taking his eyes off of the hounds large form. 

“Are you a writer then? Artist? Explorer?” her eyes glaze over with excitement.

“Not really any of those things, i just like to jot down ideas every so often” he explains, growing a little sorrowful as he watches the buzz dim in her expression. 

“Oh well, we don’t get many creative types ‘round here” she sighs “well plenty of us are creative in the bedroom but not when it comes to artsy fartsy type stuff”

John chuckles at her crudeness but he supposes he’ll have to get used to it.This is a home to thieves and drunks and addicts and whores of the highest order. A small part of him supposes it is the perfect place to fuel his own addiction. He will be living amongst these people for the foreseeable future. Sharing their jokes and listening to their stories. Possibly even sharing a few of his own, gory tales from the war that caused this complicated mess of a society.

Well, society has always been a complicated mess but now there’s a lot more poverty and crime and misery and inequality. 

“Of course Sherlock’s got his violin but he likes to torture it more than play it, if you ask me” she whispers, as if the walls have ears. 

Maybe they do.

“Well i learned to play the clarinet at school, maybe i could rival him in his musical butchering” John muses and Addison laughs a high pitch giggle, covering her mouth to smother the noise. 

“He’d probably beat you over the head with it if you distracted him from his ‘thinking time’” the young lady’s hands go up to make air quotes. 

They reach the top of yet another flight of stairs, at the bottom is a small door that has a sign painted into the wood. 

“Come on, room two hundred and twenty one B awaits” she cheers before hopping down the rickety steps. John follows behind her with a grin. 

Every floorboard creaks and cracks under his weight, infested with wood rot, much like the rest of the house. 

Addison is waiting by the door with a large grin. John can see the sign more clearly now as he approaches the foot of the stairs. ‘221B’ is painted delicately on the centre of the door, though the rest of it is plain apart from the golden door knob that sticks out at an odd angle.

“You ready? Martha can be a bit overwhelming to new folk” Addison warns.

John nods, holding back a scoff. He was a soldier. An army captain. He’s seen battle. Death. Held the weight of another soul in his hands as it departed a body. Saved lives. Taken lives. He bares the mark of a Mankiller and survived. 

He can handle a slightly overwhelming woman. 

The young lady knocks loudly before leaning in close to John “shes also a bit of a hugger”

Oh…no. He’s never really been comfortable with hugs. Especially with strangers. The feel of being held in a stranger's arms, feeling vulnerable in their grip. It just makes him think of laying in Sholto’s arms as he bled out into the sand. 

He shakes the stupid thoughts from his mind. He’s a bloody soldier! He can handle a small five second hug. 

He holds his breath as the door opens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the positivity I’ve gotten so far, honestly makes my day to know you like it! 💜💜


	4. Chapter 4

An elderly woman stands in the doorway, warm light pouring in from the room behind her. Surrounding her. Engulfing her. It’s similar to one of the illustrations of angels in the dog-eared bible that John would thumb through as he listened to his father violently rant about losing another bet. 

Those illustrations always reminded him of his mum. 

“Oh Addison dear” the woman greets, pulling him from his thoughts “and a new face!” 

“This is doctor Watson, he’s a new member of the ‘security’ team” Addison supplies as the woman inspects him with a smile. 

“Well come in! Come in” she invites both of them into the warm room. 

The lounge is bathed in firelight from the roaring hearth on the back wall which is guarded by two armchairs on either side and a couch a few meters in front. A man sits ominously in one of the armchairs peeling potatoes as he soaks up the fires heat. It’s incredibly cozy John notes as he takes in more of his snug surroundings. 

To his left and right there are singular doors closed to obscure his wandering gaze and in the far corner there is a metallic bench, littered with glass tubes and fluorescent liquids. It looks like a bloody meth lab!

“Don’t get many Doctors ‘round here” the man from the fire states absently, not even looking up from the spud he’s currently peeling.

“Isn’t it wonderful! Let me introduce myself, Doctor Watson, i’m Martha” she points to herself “but you can call me Mrs Hudson and i help Angelo, who is sitting over there, with the cooking” 

Angelo turns to John with a friendly grin and gives a small wave. His hand constructed of multiple gears and mechanicals parts that work to create a prosthetic arm. Army standard. John has seen plenty of them. 

“Well, If we’re introducing ourselves, i’m John Watson of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers” boasting his rank to build bridges with the strangers. 

“Army lad? I was on the 104th logistic support brigade” Angelo states “but tanker explosion got me” he flexes his robotic limb before reaching for another potato from the sack beside him.

“Bullet” morbidly he states, feeling the air being squeezed from his lungs as his words crush him. 

“Well at least you’ll fit in with us” Angelo grins. John does to. 

“Well now if you’re finished with such ghastly conversation i’ll give you a tour of the suite” Mrs Hudson turns to the man by the fire “honestly Angelo it’ not decent”

“What isn’t decent is you slacking off! I’ve got chips to make” he throws a potato at her for good measure. 

Addison giggles at the small scene from where she stands in the doorway.

“Honestly don’t understand how you two don’t murder each other, always having little domestics the way you do” she muses. 

“Oh shush you! You can go now” Mrs Hudson swats a hand at her, shooing her away like as if she were a pigeon “go on, off you pop” 

Addison rolls her eyes before slinking away back up the stairs, John listening to her loud stomps resonate through the creaky floorboards.

“Tell the others to get ready for Dinner!” Angelo yells up after her. A distant, aggressive ‘Ok!” is echoed back down into the flat. 

John smirks with suppressed laughter as he observes Mrs Hudson roll her eyes with an expression that conveys her irked mood.

“Right, lets give you the tour then Doctor Watson” 

Swiftly she turns on her heel toward the door to the right of them, John following behind her like an awkward shadow through the door and into a another hallway that contains other doors. 

‘No surprises there’ he thinks.

They walk over to the further of the two doors. It is oddly cut causing it to hang open slightly in the frame that looks like it’s the most popular restaurant for wood worms and the door knob is hanging by a single nail. It looks like the entrance to an abandoned crack den. A complete juxtaposition to the homely room he was standing in minutes ago. 

“It’s a shame the boys aren’t down here so you could meet them properly but they’re busy up top of course” the woman says wistfully as she reaches for the door knob. 

“The boys?” 

“Oh, Wiggins and Archie, you’ll be sharing with them...unless you’d rather share the pullout couch with Angelo of course” she barks out a tittering with the likeness of a tortured owl.

If an owl could ever be tortured. 

She pushes the door open to an absolute pig sty.

“Oh the mess!” she cries, rushing further into the room. 

There are two beds, buried under piles of clothes and food packets, pushed into each corner of the narrow room. The floor covered in an array of clothings such as shoes and pants and shorts and shirts. John would ask about a wardrobe but it seems the carpet had taken that role.

“I just cleaned this room” the woman growls as she picks up stray pieces of rubbish “just this once mind, i’m not their housekeeper” 

“You said that two people already use this room…” the uncertainty in his voice is enough to raise Mrs Hudson from her tidying.

“Not to worry, Archie is only small, i can get Angelo to set up a hammock for him in the top corner-- i’m sure he’d prefer that than sleeping in a normal bed, always acting like a monkey the way he is” 

She clears up the majority of the mess by putting it in large pile beside the door. John can see the bed now, rising like an island from the sea of of rubbish. Mrs Hudson pats the duvet appraisingly. 

“This will be your bed Doctor Watson, but i’ll wash it for you of course...and clean out the room” 

Walking back toward the door she give John a stony sideways glance from the corner of her eye. “Just this once, mind, i’m not your housekeeper”

John can’t help but feel the rising swell of adoration for this woman as they stride out of the room together. Side by side. 

“That’s my room in there, just so you know where i am if you need anything” she points to the other door that occupies the narrow space in the hall. 

They wander back into the cozy living room/ meth lab to find it missing the large figure of Angelo highlighted by the glow of the fire. It feels too snug in this room. Almost suffocating. As if he were trapped in an underground bunker disguised as his grans house. As if locked in a submerged submarine. 

Its difficult to tell if the thought of it is either comfortable or distressful. But to be fair it’s a distinction he’s struggled with his entire life. 

The room is a complete contrast to the rest of the house which is large and dark with plenty of space for shadows to creep freely. This room however is cozy and sweet and bright. 

How a home should feel. 

Mrs Hudson leads him past the lure of the fire’s heat and through the door at the far end of the lounge.

Past the entryway is a large dining room that houses a long table which starts a few feet away from John and finishes as it reaches the adjacent end of the dining hall. It is covered in an arrange of foods and dishes. There is a serving window next to an open arch on the right hand wall if which John can see Angelo bustling about, checking ovens and stirring pots. it’s much more like a village hall this room with its neutral coloured walls and smell of chips. 

His mum used to volunteer at the village hall every Sunday after church while he and Bill Murray would go round the back of the hall, collect sticks before playing ‘army men’. That game always pissed Harry off when they pretended to shoot her with their imaginary bullets.

The memory surprises him at how… happy it was. 

“This is the dining room” the woman states as she dashes over to the table, perfecting the arrangement of a basket of rolls “everyone comes down for meals and everyone has their own place, so be careful where you sit because--”

“Because you might have to fight for it” Angelo interrupts as he marches out of the open arch way with a tray of steaming chips held in his mechanical hand. Silverware was sticking from the pouch in his apron and sweat beaded on his brow form the heat of the kitchen. 

He looks exhausted.

He plonks the tray down amongst the crowd of other meals before wiping his hand down his apron front to fish out the silverware. They are also dumped onto the table, into a small, metal bucket that poses as the centrepiece. 

“Right!” he claps his mismatched, greasy hands together “let’s feed the mob” 

John watches as Mrs Hudson scuttle over to an intercom system mounted to the wall. She has a slight limp in her walk, most probably her hip. John is about to voice his concern but is interrupted by her sudden scream into the intercom. 

“Dinner!” she yells, far louder than he would a woman of her age to yell. 

Immediately there is is a flood of people bursting from the open elevator doors just beyond the end of the table. 

John can’t help but feel a little bit overwhelmed by the oncoming rush of women that are slotting neatly into the unoccupied spaces of the benches that run alongside the length of the table. 

Before him is a sea of gorgeous women, dressed in all manners of attire with makeup that frames their faces like the painted angels that once lived upon the walls of the Sistine Chapel. 

Before it was bombed. 

Irene appears from the crowd and seats herself at the head of the table. She’s robed in a red silk garb that glistens in the artificial light and flows from the curves of her body like a river, forever moving and shifting with elegance. Beside her sits a short, slim woman with fiery hair. Through the chaos of the crowd, they hold hands. Gentle and intimate. 

He continues to watch the mob of beautiful women, scanning the faces, waiting for an opportunity to merge and sit. 

He spots the young delivery boy from this morning swiftly land in the open space between a pair of dazzling women. To his left was a lady who’s exquisitely dark skin caused her golden lipstick to, in the lack of a better word, pop with intensity. Similar to the short cut dress she wore that mirrored the complexion of the ocean, glowing in the moonlight. To the boy’s right is a lightly freckled woman who’s sun-kissed hair is pinned up against an elaborate crown. A mockery or tribute to the queen who lay six foot under the shambles of Buckingham? John couldn’t tell. 

Upon the end of the bench sits Angelo, rubbing elbows with a slender Asian woman whose neck was wrapped in an intricate pearl necklace and her body garbed in dress that looks as if it were hand stitched by a thousand fairies to perfect its delicate design of midnight blue and white explosions of colour. 

It’s the first time he truly understands that these are not ladies of the night.   
They are Baronesses. Duchesses. Queens. Monarchs of the darkness. Rulers of the shadows. 

But sadly there is still no space for John to join this banquet laid before him.

Now that the majority of the overwhelming crowd has settled into their meals, few stragglers coming in every minute or so, still perfecting their hair or fixing their earrings, John has a better chance at scouring the rows for a free seat. 

He notices Addison sitting between the scruffy twenty-something year old from that morning and a woman with milky white skin sporting a crop of alarmingly pink hair and dress to match. 

A little ways up, sits Mrs Hudson and Molly, cloaked in a snug black dress with a cluster of sparkles that settle over her bosoms. And just beside Mrs Hudson is a free space. 

‘Excellent’ John grins to himself as he makes his way up past the table, collecting the attention of more and more pairs of eyes as he goes. 

Just as he claims the space the whole table goes silent for a minute before collectively continuing with their meals and conversation. 

“That’s Sherlock’s seat, dear” Mrs Hudson states as she passes a bowl of salad down the table.

John wriggles slightly in his seat with uncertainty. Sherlock was pretty scrappy when it came to fighting off Mr Woodley. It would be a memorable fight to go up against him, if he can trust Angelo’s warning.

“But i wouldn’t worry too much, he doesn’t usually come down to eat, so you’re safe” she finishes while buttering a roll. John lets out a small breath. Yet he couldn’t decide whether that was out of relief or disappointment. 

Disappointment of what? 

“I’d tuck in, dear or it’ll be gone” she chuckles. 

John heeds her warning as he reaches for the bowl of chips that is being passed down the bench like a holy offering. 

“Why doesn’t he come down?” the doctor questions as he takes cutlery offered by Molly. 

“Sherlock? Oh, he’s always giving half baked excuses as to why, waste of time apparently, or whatever fanciful thing he dreams up” the elderly woman states offhandedly, mixing butter into her potatoes to make a fluffy mash.

“Says it slows him down” Molly adds, scooping some salad onto her fork. 

“But Angelo makes Archie take some food up to him during meals” as if on cue Archie finishes his dinner, clattering his fork against the china plate before racing into the kitchen and coming back with a plate wrapped in tinfoil. “There he goes now”

“Does he eat any of it?” John asks Mrs Hudson, trying not to let himself get submerged into ‘caring doctor’ mode. 

Mrs Hudson pulls a weak face “he nibbles is all i can say really” she states before cutting into the baby carrots and peas. 

Concern flooded John's mind like how the darkness swallows the day as he thinks back to how skinny Sherlock was when they briefly met the night before. Even in the dimness of room he noticed the alarming slimness of Sherlock’s frame and the slight gauntness of his face, although most of it was hidden behind the delicate makeup that covered his features. 

The thought is shoved to the back of his mind as he decides to enjoy the quickly disappearing banquet.

\---

Dinner is over as quick as it started. The loud buzz of conversation dimmed as more and more women slipped from the dining room and back up to the main house through the elevator doors. 

Angelo is collecting empty plates and glasses from one end of the table as John and Mrs Hudson tidy away the dirty serving dishes. 

Loitering in the kitchen, washing dishes is the scruffy twenty-something year old, Wiggins. He‘s quiet. That’s the first thing John notices about him. 

“I’m John by the way” the doctor introduces himself as he delivers another load of pots and pans. 

“Yeah i know” the man states bluntly, not even looking away from the plate he was rinsing. 

John waits for a continuation of the conversation but is met with the mixture of silence and running water.  
“You’re Wiggins, right?” John tries again.

“Yeah” another dead response comes from the dishwasher. 

“Right” John turns on his heel, giving up on trying to start up a rapport with his new roommate. 

“Nah, wait a sec and i’ll take ya up top to start rounds” Wiggins calls after him from over the sink. 

\----

‘Up top’ is alive with the thrum of people pouring in through the front door. John watches as the girls appear from multiple doors to start their siren call to the growing crowds below. Their attire is as immaculate and pristine as their makeup, a complete difference to the hoards of addicts merely hunting for a fix rather than admire the delicate details put into the presentation of the house. They are here for selfish needs not art. 

The bar is already gathering a massive crowd that is coming alive with the promise of alcohol, moving and writhing with life. The introduction of the first stage performance brought with it another layer of noise to the already roaring house, John notes. The entirety of the house is awake with music and light and people and chaos. 

How on earth is he going to control all of this?

“C’mon, start with upstairs” Wiggins explains as he pushes his way past John and the throng of intoxicated strangers.

\---

Upstairs is just an infestation of men and women that pursue and elude each other through the many halls like dancers. It’s a riot of laughter and yells and other noises that seem to rude to mention. 

He takes in the number of strangers, monitoring the halls for actions that over step the boundary of ‘inebriated playfulness’. In the darkened corners of the upstairs, many strangers find comfort in their selected substance of the night and women lure their unnamed customers behind closed doors. 

Halfway through his inspection he loses Wiggins to the call of some regulars from another part of the house, leaving John to do his rounds by himself. 

As he continues to patrol the upstairs for any misbehaviour of the unwanted kind he stumbles across and open lounge that is laid out as a giant circle of seats. There are people lounging in comfort as they share in the glorious flavours of the hookahs that are being passed about like horderves. Smoke pollutes the air from the indulgent mix of men and women like factories that use to billow out their smog just for the hell of it. 

In amongst the hoards of reclined outsiders are many of the women John met at the dining hall, giggling and flirting with the many patrons of the smoking room. Despite the choking atmosphere this seems like the most charming room in the house with its pleasant ambience of laughter and coloured light. 

He turns on his heel to leave when something-- rather someone catches his eye. 

In the darker edges of the room people are enjoying a much more exotic type of pleasure to the tune of the smooth music that drifts through the tainted air. 

Dancers take stage in the laps of the unnamed patrons, casting imaginative shadows against the walls. Hips gyrate and shoulders twist to the beat of the rolling music. Arms are thrown in serpentine angles to show of elegance to the animalistic clients beneath them who grab at hips and stroke hands greedily down thighs. 

In amongst the anarchist displays is the unmistakable riot of raven black curls of Sherlock bobbing to the tempo of the music as he sits in a strangers lap. The client instantly grabs at Sherlock’s waist but he isn’t pushed away with anger like Mr Jenkins was for such grievances. Instead Sherlock seems to encourage the man's enthusiasm, bucking and writhing in his grip with the grace of a professional dancer.

A fire of jealousy roars deep within John's chest as he watches the erotic display before him.

And for the life of him he doesn’t understand why.

He has seen dozens of the gorgeous women take partners in more salacious ways during the night. Women he would most definitely wouldn’t mind spending an evening with and he hasn’t batted an eyelid. For this however he feels his fists clench at the mere sight of another man grabbing hungrily at Sherlock’s skin. 

It’s ludicrous! He doesn’t even know the man.   
It’s not his responsibility to huff out his chest in jealousy and it is most definitely not his place to push Sherlock from his client in the middle of this transaction. 

Yet he can’t keep his eyes away from the powerful moves that Sherlock perfects as he drags his hips against the thighs of the stranger to the slow beat of the music. 

The abrupt roar of laughter coming from the highlighted section of the smoking lounge pulls John from his circulation of green-eyed thoughts. He turns away from the lewd display to see what drew the hysterical attention of drunken crowd. 

A man is flat on his face in the middle of the circular room. Mr Woodley to be exact. 

John gives a quiet snort of humour before turning swiftly on his heel, definitely ignoring the lap dance being performed by sex on legs, leaving Mr Woodley to pick himself up. 

As he passes out into the hall way he completely misses another stranger loitering in the shadows. And why would he notice? There are hundreds of strangers milling about the place like cockroaches. 

In the darkness of the room he stands. Smartly dressed in a pristine Westwood suit. Freshly pressed. Pinned to his breast is a polished silver magpie pin, gleaming slightly in the suffocating warmth of the room’s light. His black hair is slicked back with thick oil that resembles the queasy sleekness of tar. The unknown man stands with the posture of a rat leering in the sewer as he surveys the entirety of the room. Eyeing every drunkard and smoker and prostitute that populates this insipid house like shit in a pig pen. 

His expression is neutral but his eyes sheen with the intensity of a poised viper waiting patiently for its innocent prey to draw close enough for it to strike. 

Sinners. Every last one of them. They will all burn.

The stranger slinks back into the shadows to observe his game in peace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the slight lateness but I felt releasing a chapter today would be a good way to celebrate Sherlock’s birthday. Hope you all enjoy💜💜


	5. Chapter 5

“C’mon up ya get” Wiggins’ voice is the first thing he registers as he comes back into the land of the living. John blinks his eyes open to see the unshaven face of Wiggins staring back at him and the whiteness of the ceiling that acts an underwhelming canvas for the man’s head.

He’s in a bed. His new bed. Fresh sheets and fluffed pillows. 

It’s heavenly. 

“How’d i get here?” his words are slurred with the heaviness of sleep pouring the poison of comfort into his ear. Clawing at him to remain in bed. It’s devilish. 

“The ‘ouse has a way of ‘xhausting people. Dropped off like a log the moment we go in ‘ere” Wiggins answers, moving back to his bunk to sort out the tangle of covers. 

John shakes his head, trying to wake his brain up. 

He looks up to see the tiny form of Archie struggling to unhook himself from the hammock that refuses to let go of his leg no matter how much he fights with the stubborn fabric.

“That time is it?” based on instinct he looks for the alarm clock that usually sits upon his bedside table until it hits him, he has nothing of his apart from a few clothes that Irene had collected for him from his flat. They lay neatly folded at the end of the bed. 

Exactly how his mum would set out his Sunday best. Or his rugby kit. Or his school uniform. Or his bag to pack for the war.

“Eight” Wiggins grunts as he finishes up with his bedsheets. Archie is continuing to fight his hammock for the freedom of his right ankle, giving small yelps of anger every so often. Its grating on Wiggins’ nerves. 

“Right” John nods in affirmation before throwing the covers off of himself. Time to start the day. 

Archie finally frees himself with a squeal of delight as he falls over, landing at John's feet.  
\---

They start the day with going through the ‘morning routine’ as Wiggins called it which involves a lot of tidying. And by that, I mean a lot. 

The whole house is a mess of broken glass, miscellaneous liquids, cigarette packets and unconscious bodies. John can’t quite believe it. But he supposes that a tide of people such as last night's will always leave driftwood in it’s wake. 

Wiggins and John start with collecting all the stragglers that are so hungover they can’t tell their arse from the elbow. They stagger to their feet like newborn foals and squint in the bright light of the grand chandelier, silently cursing it. Others weren’t so silent about their discontent.

“So they’re just left here? Unsupervised?” John questions as they help another man to his feet, tuning out his pained moans about a headache. 

“Well what really ‘happens is that ‘round one-ish, that is if its not a lively night, the girls’ll grab their last fellas of the night and the other men either leave or pass out” Wiggins explains. 

John makes a disapproving face.

“Well they aren't exactly gonna do anythin’ if they’re dead to the world, are they?” Wiggins snorts. 

John wants to inquire further about the possibility of thieves and other misdeeds that could be performed on the unsuspecting drunkards but he thinks better of it. 

This is a house of thieves and miscreants and sinners of every variety, from the minuet a person walks into its doors they are damned to be subjected to all manner of dangers whether at the end of a needle or the end of a knife. They know exactly what they are getting into. That’s why the house thrums with the energy of it. Lives off of it. Supplies it in an ugly cycle, giving and taking with no manners needs to numb the sharp snap of reality that burns like the sunrise. 

\---

John H. Watson didn’t become a doctor to watch these drunken bastards struggle with their hangovers and intoxicatedly acquired injuries without jumping in to help. 

There are many headaches that just need some water to help clear as well as multiple cuts that have been left to numbly bleed. 

He’s helping bandage up a young woman’s hand of a nasty cut from a game of pinfinger that went horribly wrong somewhere in the events of the night when he sees Wiggins haul the mumbling body of Mr Jenkins out the door. Poor sod must have really outdone himself this time. 

“Finish up ‘ere Doc and we’ll start cleaning up that stage room” Wiggins states and John nods in affirmation. The woman looks like she’s about to faint. 

\---

The stage room is a wreck. An absolute wreck. Now absent of the stray bodies John can really focus on the monumental mess. 

He isn’t convinced that a herd of buffalo didn’t rampage through here during the night. 

There are bottles of every variety littering almost every surface of every table and glass shards decorating the floor like spindles of a massive spider web that was spun across the floorboards. Cigarettes have been stubbed out on basically anything that was in reach, scorching the oaken surface of the banisters and leather seats. 

It’s a horrible remembrance of the selfish nature of humans to discard the environment around them. 

John sighs deeply before shoving more empty bottles into the bin bag that already clinks with the sound of other glass bottles that have served their purpose and now await recycling. Like him, in a way.

“The girls should be gettin’ up soon, then we can clean up the bedrooms” Wiggins states offhandedly as he sweeps up shards that populate the floor. 

Suddenly there is a thundering of feet and Archie appears from a hallway, not slowing at all when he rushes up the grand staircase that governs the right side of the room.

“How old is Archie?” yet another bottle crashes down to meet its fallen brothers. 

“Eight” more shards clink together as they are pushed together to form the image of sea foam grinding against a shore of wooden boards. 

“And he works in a place like this?” the bottles quiet down. 

“Oh, ‘course you don’t know” the sea of glass is swept away a little bit further “he's the Ladyship’s nephew, see his Mr and Mrs died when he was only small and so her Ladyship took ‘im in” 

John's lips form a round ‘O’ shape in understanding as he continues to pick up the pathetic crushed out stubs of cigarettes. Discarding them like vermin into the bin bag along with the bottles. 

“Ya won’t believe the amount of coddling he gets from the girls” 

“Oh i can imagine” John hums an agreement, remembering how much his aunties would spoil him for sweets when he was still an innocent, chubby cheeked age. “What exactly does he do then? He looked in quite a hurry” 

“He’s the errand boy of the house” Wiggins shrugs “he gets letters from where they are and takes ‘em where they need to be, sometimes he helps with the cooking’ and the cleaning!” he raises his voice to a more angry tone, pointed at the hurried footsteps of Archie as he runs across the landing.

“I’m coming!” the younger boy yells, disappearing into a another warren-like corridor. His voice echoing through the walls. 

Wiggins rolls his eyes in exasperation while John just grins. It’s like living in the army again, where hard work and brotherly japery are blended together neatly. 

Somewhere within the house a deep chiming of a bell resonates through the old, creaky halls like the ghostly scream of a bullet. It’s unsettlingly delicate in it’s call, as if singing to everyone in the house. Commanding them to listen to it’s song. Follow it’s rule. 

John watched in silent awe as the bell quietened to a low hum and nearly every door that he could lay eyes on open, almost in sync, to reveal a dishevelled lady. They had all made half assed attempts at getting dressed, wearing mostly tousled hair and bare feet, pairing nicely with their tired expressions. They all move lazily from their rooms before collectively swarming like bees toward the same hallway which leads back to their room. 

John soon spots Sherlock trailing in behind the gaggle of women, looking equally tired and equally half dressed. His shirt is missing and is idly trying to button up his trousers (There’s a few buttons missing somehow) but his attention is really drawn to angrily poking at the purpling bruise sucked into the side of his milky skin. 

An unidentified feeling stabs its way through John's body at the sight, leaving a bitter taste in his mouth. Sherlock doesn’t even glance in his direction as he continues on his way. Oblivious to the world around him. 

“Any of you’s got fellas left?” Wiggins yells at them as they disappear into the foundations of the house. 

“No!” they yell back with a collective blasé tone. 

“Right then, means we can start cleaning up the bedrooms” the other man huffs, letting his broom clatter to the ground, disturbing the few little inconspicuous droplets of glass from where they rest in between the floorboards. 

\----

From the entrance way of the bedroom all John can register is the overwhelming musk of sex that permeates the air. 

“Jesus” John breathes as he walks further into the room. The room is bathed in dim light from the electronic lamp that hangs just above the extravagant victorian style bed. Well, right now it doesn’t look too extravagant. 

The duvet looks like a crumpled up napkin in the centre of the mattress and there is only one pillow that occupies the head board, the rest are strewn around the room along with a pair of boxers and a left sock. It’s quite comical the longer he studies the room. Just the way everything is thrown around and discarded as if a bloody hurricane blew threw it, not really giving off the romantic ambient that is spouted in the stories of starry-eyed lovers. 

He strides closer to the bed, broom and bin bag in hand, deciding where to start; bed, pillows or the condom wrapper that he has just stepped on. He really hopes the used product made it’s way into the rubbish bin that sits by the bedside table. 

Might as well start with the washing. Mechanically, with slight hesitance, he moves to grab the crumpled duvet--

“Oh I wouldn’t touch that dear” Mrs Hudson warns from the doorway. John retracts his hands as if pulled singed flesh away from a roaring fire, “they’re disgusting- those lads, when they’re drunk”

She enters, revealing a large laundry hamper already filled with dirty linens that she pulls behind her. Wrinkled hands are wrapped in thick, pink washing gloves as she titters over to the bedside to strip the bed down to its bare mattress, looking like a member of a radioactive clean up compared to a little old maid. 

John decides to make himself useful and round up the stray pillows that fell to the wayside during this clearly energetic romp in the sheets. 

“You do this every day?” John asks as he throws the pillow casings into the hamper, along with the forgotten sock and boxers. 

“Well yes” she states pulling the duvet to the floor “it’s more for the girls comfort really, it’s hard to lay back and think of England when the sheets smell of last nights gentleman”

John nods in understanding, he know what it’s like to lay in the sweat patch of the last person to occupy the bed, gripping onto salvation and crying into a stranger’s tear stains. 

“--but the men are so pissed they’re just as oblivious to who they’re shagging as to where they’re shagging” she barks a short breath of laughter. John joins her in the burst of humour, admiring the way her aged face lights up. 

\----

When the last room is finished up they all head back down to the Baker Suite for the nap just before breakfast/ lunch in a couple hours or so. He doesn’t register how tired he is until his body finally settles against the comforting embrace of the mattress and the tendrils of sleep blanket him. 

The hyper sound of Archie calling to him through the fog of his clouded dreams beckoned him back to the land of light. 

“Come on doctor Watson, you’ll be late for breakfast” the boy calls, roughly shaking at John's aching shoulder.

“yes-- Thank you, Archie, i’m awake” he gruffs while yanking his shoulder away from the child’s unknowing abuse. 

He sits up, blinking his eyes in a sluggish manner as he wipes the lingering mist of sleep from his vision, in search of his clothes.   
\----

In the dining room it is alive with conversation and laughter as the girls, clad in all sorts of pyjamas and dressing gowns, chatter about their nights. Sharing stories of illustrious clients and dancing men while nibbling at french toast and cereals that lay before them. 

It all looks amazingly homely. Like one big happy family gathering. He smirks at the thought of finally playing happy families in the company of prostitutes, addicts and apocalyptic rejects. 

Confidently, he slips into the vacant seat next to Mrs Hudson, the fear of altercation with the elusive Sherlock a small worry in the back of his mind as he settles. Few eyes draw to him as he make himself at home. They continue their conversations, no longer bothered by his presence at their feast. 

He takes that as a right to claim the seat at the table as his own. 

That is until the elevator doors open wide to reveal the bored expression of Sherlock. His hair is sticking up in every which way, the aftermath of being handled roughly by unknown fist, his face is marked with the half-assed wipe of a dampened cloth and his body wrapped up in a midnight blue silk dressing gown. 

The room goes silent. 

Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice. Nor care. 

John feels a little spark of concern swell within him as Sherlock shuffled closer to his seat. All mascara smudged eyes are on him. Tracking Sherlock’s movements like vultures stalking a weak animal tiring from exhaustion. 

Sherlock reaches the side of the bench, his expression not even shifting as he slides in between John and Mrs Hudson. Politely, John shifts over to make room but the girl’s attention remains focused on Sherlock’s actions right as he parks himself in John's lap. 

John doesn’t know what to say, face frozen in shock as the man settles heavily upon the meat of his army trained thighs. Sherlock, however, seems unfazed by his decision to sit in the man’ lap. So much so that he takes a bite from the partially buttered toast that is cooling on John's plate. The other girls- including Archie, Wiggins and Angelo- are all eagerly watching the spectacle before them as if it was an intense climax in one of those stupid soap operas Harry use to watch. 

“I’m sorry-- should i move?” John questions, slightly angry at his uncaring manner, not really sure where to put his hands. 

“Hmm?” Sherlock turns to look over his shoulder nonchalantly “oh no you’re fine” he states before turning back to the table. 

There’s a storm of outrage colliding with a steady stream of arousal within him, rising higher and higher in his body. How dare his cheek! How dare he just sit in his lap and not give a flying toss about whether John would object!

“Sherlocks favourite seat, another man’s lap!” one of the girls calls from the mass of people sitting around the table. The remark is met with a chorus of laughter, breaking the tense silence as well as John's train of thought.

“Shut up, my arse hurts!” Sherlock growls back to the crowd of hysterics. John still isn’t really sure where to put his hands as his mind is unhelpfully drawn to the subject of Sherlock’s bony behind digging into the muscle of John's thighs. 

“I’d i have thought you'd have lost feeling in that thing years ago” another girl cackles, drawing another round of amusement from the horde of pyjama-clad women. John wrinkles his nose at the cheap jab, not really sure if this was friendly banter or just plain bullying. 

“I could say the same about yours!” Sherlock retorts, a smirk playing across his lips, fingers picking at the burned bread. 

“Oooh” the group hollers at the venom spat from Sherlock’s silver tongue, like a crowd of villagers marvelling at the might of a fearsome dragon spouting fire. 

“Good morning Sherl” a dark haired woman with a thick Irish accent smiles before chucking an orange at his head “get that down ya, cry baby” 

John feels completely forgotten about as Sherlock quietly pries into the fruit and the other girls go back to their own conversations and breakfasts. 

“Here dear, eat this” Mrs Hudson chips in from beside him, offering a buttered slice of toast. John takes it, finding it hard to move under the heavy weight of the other man wedged upon his legs. Sherlock doesn’t seem to notice as he sips his tea. “Oh don’t mind him, he’s just being difficult for attention, if you really want you can always shove him off-- some might applaud you for it” she whispers.

“I’m not deaf you know” Sherlock says pointedly and he peels the flesh of the orange apart. 

“Never said you were” the elderly woman smiles, completely ignoring his icy tone. 

John just chuffs a laugh, deciding that Sherlock can stay seated only for the comfort of his aching behind. 

About an hour later of feasting and chatting and John's legs going numb, Irene declares that breakfast is over as she stands up from her seat. 

“Go on, go get your faces on and lace up your boots, it’s doubles night so remember your Ps and Qs” she announces before tucking her chair in. 

The girls then collectively get up from their seats and make their way up to the opening elevator, chatting and giggling as they go. Asking each other for permission to borrow all sorts of clothes and hair products to perfect their beauty. Sherlock is slow to rise, taking his time to swing his legs out from under the table and stand, giving John a sideways glance as he struts away to join the talkative crowd. 

“Right...” he says to himself as he begins to collect up the nearby dirty plates as well as the pile of discarded orange peels that sit on the table before him “unbelievable” 

\---

He’s been put on dishwashing duty with Wiggins while Angelo starts preparing for dinner. It’s a bit cramped in the quaint kitchen but they soon find a good rhythm to work with, functioning together like bees in a hive. 

John, while scrubbing the remaining bean juice from a plate that stubbornly refuses to yield to his brush, watches Wiggins from the corner of his eye- mainly the dark ink that marks his forearm. 

“You see something ya like, Doc?” Wiggins asks, not even looking up from the knife he’s sharpening. 

“You have a ravager tattoo” John points out the thick lines of the elaborate wolf head etched into the man’s forearm. 

“Yeah, use to be one didn’t I” Wiggins drawls in his seedy accent. 

“I thought you couldn't leave one once you’re in” John muses as he puts the clean dish in a pile with the others. 

“Well that’s the thing innt” Wiggins looks up at John.

“Oh god not this story again” Angelo groans from where he’s slicing carrots just a few paces away. 

“Oi! It’s a good story” Wiggins settles against the kitchen counter, John can’t help but feel intrigued to hear more “right so, i was about 18, skint beyond belief, fresh outta’ school and in need of a job, so where do I turn? The Red League, down Saxe-Coburg Square as a chemist” he lays the scene with the same flare as Shakespeare, only scruffier. John tips slightly upon the balls of his feet, intrigued. Angelo rolls his eyes. “ I had been in the ravager way of life for about two years and on a whim by our leader, Spauldin’, we were getting ready to rob this place, yeah?”

John nods following the story clearly.

“We had planned it for months, knew exactly where and when we’d hit--”

“What were you going to steel?” John questions, stretching out as much as he can of the story to alleviate his boredom for a little bit longer. 

“Drugs”

“Oh”

“Yeah so, it’s the middle of the night, the ‘house was all lit up with lights and music and men drunk outta there fuckin’ minds and we burst in guns blazing, the girls all scream and the blokes are fuckin’ falling over themselves to get away. We made our way over to the bar and raided every cabinet would could reach, we thought we were in heaven!

“That’s when out of nowhere the lights go out and everyone screams and then there's gunshots ringing left, right and centre, BANG! BANG!” he raises his hand to mimic the firing of a pistol “the lights come back on and every single one of my group is dead. Right before me, looking like fish the way they’ve just flopped onto the floor, dead-eyed,

“Then I look up and her ladyship and about ten other lasses are looking down at me from over the bar, guns hot”

“What did they do?” John's eyes are wide, captivated. 

“Well the Ladyship said I could either pay the bill of all the drugs that we tried to take with my life or my labour, ‘course she made me sign a contract and here i am” he finishes his story with a proud smile. 

“that’s not what i remember” Angelo remarks “you were pleading into the Ladyship’s dress, crying like a baby--”

“Doctor Watson! Doctor Watson!” Archie runs into the kitchen, severing Angelo’s speech. His dark curls bouncing with every rushed step as he carelessly passes Wiggins and the knife he is sharpening.

“Archie you know you can just call me John, right?” he looks down at the young boy, putting the pot he was cleaning back onto the counter. 

“I have a letter for you” the lad beams as he hold the small card up to the doctor. 

John takes it in hand, reading the spidery writing scratched across its surface.

Come at once if convenient,   
If inconvenient come all the same, 

SH. 

John sighs.

“Archie can you show me where i need to go?” 

Archie simply nods and takes off making John quicken his stride to catch up with the energetic child. 

\----

Archie leads John through a series of halls and stairways to come to a large oaken door labelled with a huge star painted upon it. Archie knocks on the wood before stepping away patiently. They both wait together for a few seconds for the “Come in!” that gives them permission to step inside. 

John trails behind the young boy but has to pause to take in the very busy room. It has to be the best lit room of the house, not a slither of darkness in sight and it is alive with chatter and women and movement. It’s formidable. 

His eyes are quick to land on the aloof silhouette of Sherlock perched in the sill of rounded window, tucked away in the far corner of the room. His dressing gown from that morning is hanging loosely from his shoulders and his hair is done up in pink rollers. Lazily, he drags in breaths of nicotine before puffing out quick streams of smoke through the crack of the window. It’s like watching something out of a tragic noir film. Strikingly beautiful and mysterious. 

Archie isn’t so captivated by the elegance of Sherlock and marches on over. John subconsciously follows. 

“Ah John, excellent” the man smiles, stubbing out his cigarette into the woodwork before hopping onto the bed below and then the floor “thank you Archie you can go now”

“But what about my bisc-”

“Go!” he snaps impatiently at the boy. Archie huffs and rolls his eyes before scampering off out the door. 

“You sent for me, i’m assuming its important” says John as he glances up at skull staring back at him on the window sill. 

“Oh yes, i need your help getting dressed” the man hums as he lets his silk dressing gown flutter from his shoulders to pool at his feet, revealing his naked torso but also the skimpy black panties and matching garter belt that clothe him. 

John blushes at the sight of Sherlock’s indecency but finds he cannot remove his eyes from the faint puncture marks that decorate the crook of his elbows. His brows pinch. 

Sherlock either doesn’t notice or simply doesn’t care about what John thinks about his scarring imperfections. He saunters over to the cover of his vanity screen to pluck a purple and black lace corset from a cloth mannequin that stands in the corner. John steps closer as he watches Sherlock pin the bust to his chest. 

“If you’re quite done ogling, you can get over here and help me” Sherlock huffs impatiently. 

“Oh yeah--right” John mumbles, finally remembering he was called here to help. 

Hesitantly he stands behind Sherlock, reaching for the corset to adjust it against the man’s slender torso. While he holds it in place Sherlock makes quick work of buttoning up his busk, hardly paying attention to John behind him. 

“Right” Sherlock sighs before abruptly bending over the desk, supporting himself with his hands planted against the solid wood and presenting his back (and arse) to John. “lace me up will you?” he asks over his shoulder. 

John could have sworn that the man fluttered his eyelashes but his mind is so frazzled that he’s not sure what is happening. 

He he shakes his head of the ridiculous thought and gets to work. His frequent lessons on how to thread needles coming from both his mum and his professor paying off in his quick ability to loop the silk cords together to bind the two sides of leather corset over the expanse of Sherlock’s back.

“Done?”

“Yep” 

“Good, now i’ll tell you when to stop, but for now just pull” Sherlock instructs. 

John wastes no time taking the lace in hand and pulling them taught. 

Sherlock huffs a short breath of annoyance “come on, you can do better than that”

John pulls again.

“Harder”

He pulls, sweat collecting on his brow.

“Harder!”

He grips the lace tightly in his fists and pulls again, knuckles turning white with ferociousness.   
“HARDER!” 

John clenches his jaw, both of their breaths coming out in short huffs as John puts one foot up on the dresser for more leverage and PULLS. 

“OH” it comes out of Sherlock’s mouth as a breathy moan, sending shivers down John's spine along with the rush of boiled blood. 

He takes his foot down from the dresser and stands still, with the lace still in hand, waiting for Sherlock to get his breath back. 

“Can you tie it up... please” his voice is a little bit raspy from where he was shouting so wildly, sounding almost tame. 

John silently agrees and takes to securing the corset to Sherlock’s unblemished torso.

“Right, you’re all good now” 

“That was-- the thing you did that was good” he stands up straight and turns to look at John, his dazzling eyes shining like the moon. Drawing John’s ocean coloured irises toward him. “You can go now” 

John nods, letting go of a breath he didn’t realise he was holding as he turned away from the man’s alluring gaze. Trying very hard to will away the awkwardness of his stride. 

Once out from shelter of the vanity screen did he notice that the entire room had frozen. All eyes were on him as he paused under their scrutiny, giggling and smirking to themselves like a court of frivolous angels sitting upon their high clouds. 

‘Brilliant’ he thinks as he breaks free from their piercing observation, moving over to the door. 

It’s not until he removes himself from the dressing room does he realise that he has no idea how to get back to the Baker suite.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologies for the long wait but I’ve had a very hectic start to the school year, I have finally applied to university, YAY! And I’ve spent the whole of last night in London at a concert so I’m very tired but I had to push myself to get this chapter out to you! Kudos’ and comments are much appreciated 😊


	6. Chapter 6

The house is yet again alive with the thrum of music as it pulsates through the crowd like a heartbeat. Lights and shadows hunt each other back and forth, across the dance floor, weaving through the flailing bodies that make up the sea of drunken dancers in an intense game of cat and mouse. Drinks are spilling over and laughter turns to awful singing as complete strangers bond over sort-of-knowing the lyrics to any song that the old record player decides to blast out next. 

Glancing over to the bar, John observes the barmaids battling the torrent of hands that wildly grasp for drinks and shove money in their direction. The girls work in perfect sync, moving and shifting together as they shout orders, fill drinks, take money and combat the shit-faced customers that refuse to accept that they can’t get behind the bar. 

John watches skeptically as a drunken man leans way too close to one of the barmaids. The stranger’s sweaty fist, clutching some crumpled notes, snakes it’s way up the woman's body toward her bosoms. John eyes the display wearily, wondering if it would be best to step in to wrestle away the more disorderly patrons, such as the handsy drunkard leaning across the bar. 

He takes a step forward but is stopped in his tracks when the man is slapped away from the dark haired Latino woman. The stranger is swallowed by the crowd as the barmaid pulls the notes from her cleavage and shoves it under the counter. John takes a step back.

They seem to have it under control. 

From where he stands in the shadowy corner he observes the inebriated people dance and skulk at their tables, drinking and gambling and ingesting their favoured substances. Upon the stage a group of acrobatic women dressed in leotards that hug close to their lean bodies, twist and turn from swings, suspended upon ropes and ribbons. Together they dive and leap from rope to rope, spinning in the air like valiant birds in the breeze before landing in each other’s arms. It is enchanting to watch as the girls unroll themselves from red ribbons before halting inches before the ground, eliciting gasps of wonder from the audience. 

They move as a flock of elegant twists and flips to the smooth roll of the music. They looked like stars shooting across the inky blackness of the sky, dazzling the world below with their magnificence. John watches as the drunken crowd simmers into calmer lapping ocean, gazing at the women with awe as they make their final descent to the stage below. 

The music grows quiet just as the crowd grows rowdy with applause, throwing notes and change at their remarkable bodies clad in eye catching pinks and blues dusted with sequins that reflect the house’s light. The girls smile down at their adoring fans with reverence, collecting some of the loose change as it is hurled toward them by the drunkards. Like stones being regurgitated by the roaring waves of an upset sea. 

John watches the crowd with anticipation of having to pull a drunken idiot down from their attempt to get on stage. His fingers itch for it. 

The crowd once again falls back into its regular volume of chatter and energy as Archie runs across the stage, broom in hand, to sweep away the remaining notes and pennies left on the stage. Preparing for the next dancer. 

In almost no time Archie is gone. Back behind the curtains that shield the dancers from the hum of the mob that converge disorderly at the edge of the stage. 

Slowly, the record player begins to present a steady beat from the drums, echoed with the shy croon of a saxophone as the intro continues to roll in like a thunderstorm. The entire crowd perks up in from where they stand/sit, eyeing the heavy satin curtains with predatory sharpness. Some let out ‘whoops’ and ‘hollers’ at the still empty stage as if calling to the dancer to make an appearance.

John lifts his composure up from where he is leant against the wall, falling prey to the interest bubbling under his skin. 

The music grows bolder as the intro lengthens. The drum is more solid as the saxophone sings with more sultry composure. A few more strangers begin to call, unable to contain their excitement. 

The lights dim and the crowd ripples. 

A figure appears at the entrance of the curtains. The crowd begins to whistle and yell for the shadowy stranger’s attention. John squints into the darkness, trying to figure out which girl had roused the house into such a frenzy. 

They were tall and lithe with their clothes so tight it was practically a second skin as they strutted forward in jet black boots, laced all the way up their milky skin. The figure’s hair bounced and swayed in time with the rising rhythm of the music as they continue to make their way into the only beam of light that lit the stage. It was only when they drew closer that John also noticed the ruffled fabric that was clipped to the small of their back and trailed down to around their mid calf, gently caressing the leather of their knee high boots with every sway of the strangers hips. 

The dancer steps into the light and the music stops. 

It’s Sherlock. Poised under the spotlight like one of the racy pin ups that would float around the base camps during the war. John's jaw drops in astonishment just as the crowd flares to life. 

The music abruptly blares and Sherlock frees himself from the momentary pause in existence, flying and twisting and contorting in the air. He and the melody become one as they rise and fall, drinking in the complements whistled against the scream of the saxophone, floating effortlessly over the floorboards. 

It is exotic. 

John feels his heart hammer against his ribs, his blood boiling during its hasty rush south, pooling low in his abdomen like an awakened dragon. 

It is erotic. 

His palms begin to sweat with the sudden realisation of how stuffy it is in the large room. The crowd is drowning him in it’s frenzy as they are all pulled toward the eye of the storm that whirls upon the stage. Subconsciously, his tongue moves to lick his upper lip with unabashed arousal from where he lay hidden at the back of the room, watching the alcoholics eagerly paw at the stage. 

Sherlock however doesn’t even spare a glance at the flailing hands that reach for him like demons trying to drag him down to the depths of hell. Yet he continues to dance, curling like smoke as the saxophone drifts around him, spinning him into a paroxysm of purple of black as his tail piece whips at his calves and his bodice glimmers in the ethereal light. 

The music builds and builds and builds as the drums thunder and the saxophone roars as it orchestrates the every movement of Sherlock’s body. 

The drums stomp. His feet stamp. 

The piano glistens. His body spins. 

The bass rolls. His limbs sway. 

The harmonica cries. His legs fly. 

The saxophone sings. His spirit ripples. 

The crowd screams to him but he does not listen. John stares with brazen lust painting his features but Sherlock does not care. 

Upon the stage he is a lightning rod, conducting a storm of passion and exhilaration as he and the instruments become one. Feeding off of the public’s attention like parasites. Falling victim to the sinful act of unbridled eroticism that is Sherlock. 

John can’t help but get caught in its magnetic pull, just like the other drunkards that rock and whistle acting like the sea, attracted to the lure of the moon’s beauty. 

Sherlock drops to his knees, knocked down by the force of the drum and John isn’t entirely sure if the people around him heard the strangled moan that got caught in his throat.

‘God, get it together’ he inwardly curses at the sudden weakness. He has a job to do and will not allow himself to be distracted. 

He looks up to see Sherlock staring right back at him through the writhing sea. Their eyes meet as the music huffs out it’s final breaths. 

Sherlock winks. John stalls. 

The crowd continues to cheer and grope the air, clawing for Sherlock’s attention as he stands. Chest heaving, cheeks burning, mouth dry and trousers tented, John watches him trail into the darkness like a ghost. 

His heart begins to steady as he concentrates on willing away the heat that has pooled between his legs. Scanning the swarm of strangers he finds that they have all been discarded in a similar state of awe, shaking themselves from the thrall of Sherlock’s performance. 

The music begins to play again. This tune has a sharper melody as it rips through the room like a blunt knife, warning the mass of people of the next performance as a group of three tumble out onto the stage. They strike up the crowd, though not as wildly as Sherlock did, and John decides that he is more useful patrolling the halls rather than skulking in the shadows like a common pervert. 

He turns on his heel to head towards one of the two grand staircases that encompasses the grand showroom. Ignoring the scream of the bass that rouses the crowd. To him its just noise. Nothing like the flowing rhythm that still echoes in his mind, lulling him gently in sweet memory of the spirited performance. Clouding his mind like dust filtering sunbeams. 

He is so deep into the melody of his thoughts that it takes him a moment to realise that a small hand is tugging at his jumper. 

He jumps to look at the potential threat to meet the inquisitive eyes of Archie staring right back at him. 

“Doctor Watson!” the boy yells over the loud music and applause. 

“Archie?” John replies “what’s wrong?”

“Mister Holmes needs you” 

“Who?” John questions, readying himself to help a person in need. Or perhaps kick someone out. 

“Sherlock” Archie groans at John's slowness as he pulls on John's sleeve “come on!”

“Alright, I’m coming” John allows himself to be lead by the young boy down a darkened corridor, anticipation to see Sherlock in his post-performance glory tingles through his veins. 

\----

Archie leads John up to the dressing room door, knocks once before turning to run off down another hallway. Busy to fulfil other chores around the bustling house. 

John watches him go before opening the starred door. 

Inside Sherlock sits upon his bed puffing out smoke like a dragon guarding its hoard, eyeing the knight that dares come a little closer. He’s still wearing the corset that clings to his body, showing off his narrow waist and supple figure as well as the black panties that just barely protect him from indecency. He looks like a present waiting to be opened. 

“Sherlock?” John hesitates in the doorway, unsure if they are alone or not. 

Sherlock simply waves him in as he goes to grab the cigarette from between his lips, savouring the last wisps of nicotine that dance across his tongue. John slips past the door, closing it gently behind him, before treading lightly into the room. 

“We are alone John you can stop looking so sheepish” Sherlock states as he stubs out the cigarette into his (stolen) Waterford crystal ashtray. 

“You called for me?” John pries as he moves toward the luxurious bed, the vanity screen secluding them from the rest of the empty room. 

Sherlock turns to eye him mischievously from where he sits on the mattress. His face painted with contrasting colours; cherry lipstick glimmers across his cupid bow lips and charcoal eyeliner highlights the opal of his eyes. He looks like a fantasy pulled from the darkest parts of John's mind and dropped right before him. 

“I need you to undress me” Sherlock stands. John flatlines. 

“Wai- i’m sorry-?” John splutters back to coherence, his eyes traitorously wandering down to drink in the endless expanse of Sherlock’s body “what?”

Sherlock is practically close enough for John to smell his perfume as well as count the six small beads of sweat that have collected at the base of his collar bone. 

“Undress me” Sherlock turns away, presenting his back along with the intricate laces that John weaved together earlier that evening “corsets are lovely but too much for the whole evening”

A bucket of cold water is dumped on John, instantly chilling his boiling blood. Sherlock just wanted to get out of the corset! He wasn’t inviting John for a quicky in the backroom! He feels like a complete fool. Like one of the stoned perverts that paw at the girls every night. 

“Don’t feel bad about getting hot and bothered” the smirk is clear through his tone “i make a lot of soldiers feel that way”

John pauses in his reach for the knot at the top of the corset that binds the leather together. 

“Who told you i was a soldier?” curiosity cuts through his words. Sherlock smiles. 

“When i met you for the first time yesterday, i said, ‘Afghanistan or iraq?’ you looked surprised” the man muses from where he stands, eyeing the mirror to gage John's reaction. 

“Yes, how did you know?”

“I didn’t know, i saw” he quips before spinning in John's grip to face the shorter man, drinking in his surprise “your haircut, the way you hold yourself and the way you were quick to swiftly defuse the threat of Mr Woodley, screams military but the way you cared for me after- and the way you introduced yourself- showed me you were a doctor. So you’re an army doctor, obvious,

“Your face is tanned but no tan above the wrists and since we don’t actually get sunshine here since the ‘incident’ you’ve been abroad, before the incident, but not sunbathing” Sherlock takes a small pause to observe John's enthralled expression “you were recently injured which resulted in your need for the cane but when you dealt with Mr Woodley- and ever since- you have walked without aid of it, proving it was at least partly psychosomatic,

“That tells me that the original circumstances of the injury was traumatic” he eyes John “wounded in action, then, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq” he finishes with a smug air of certainty weighted in his words. 

“That” John stares in disbelief “was amazing”

“You think so?” Sherlock blinks. 

“Of course it was” John stresses his words, eyes not sure where to look “it was extraordinary; quite extraordinary”

“That’s not what people normally say” Sherlock still stares at him with disbelief. He was trying to impress John but it seems to have spun itself on its head.

“What do they normally say?”

“‘Piss off’”

John chuckles with a wide grin. Truly laughing as if Sherlock had told him the funniest joke in the world. It pulls at Sherlock’s mysterious, brooding facade until it is completely ripped from his face. Stripping him bare. 

He begins to giggle too. 

The momentary spark of life feels more exhilarating than the pin prick of a needle in the crook of an elbow or the kick of a gun as it fires into the distance. 

“There is of course your family history of alcohol abuse and domestic violence but i sense that is a story for another time” Sherlock states, hoping to god that he picked up on the right social cues and didn’t screw this heavenly moment up. 

John's face turns stony as he looks up at Sherlock before glancing away scratching the back of his head. “Yeah, as much as i’d like to know how you ‘saw’ that i’d rather not turn this into a therapy session” he states. 

“not good?” 

“Just a bit, yeah” 

Sherlock nods, biting his lip, not sure how to fill the silence that has pushed them far away from that blissful moment of laughter they shared only moments ago. 

“Could you possibly still undo the laces?” he turns “my ribs are aching”

John instantly throws himself at the knot of laces, the doctor in him screaming that being crushed into a tight bind like this for too long is obviously dangerous to one's health.

“That’s because you had me do it up so tight” Dr Watson scolds “thrashing about on stage in something so cramped-- do you have any idea of how much you can hurt yourself by doing this?” 

“In all my years you’re the first man to complain about me being too tight” Sherlock chuckles, watching John stubbornly blush in the mirror as he continues to release the corset from such a tight bind “-and yes i’m fully aware of the dangers, i’ve been doing it long enough”

“And how exactly did you get into this business?” John questions, fingers struggling to tug the laces from their stubborn hold of one another. 

“Oh no no no, if you’re not having a therapy session than neither am i” Sherlock teases, silently thanking the doctor’s nimble fingers for quickly relieving the pressure from his lungs. Steadily he takes his first deep breath of the night. 

“You just flayed my whole career open but i can’t even know how you started” John argues with a light tone, taking more pleasure in seeing Sherlock inhale steady breaths. 

“Fine: bad habits, rubbish big brother, Middle East malfunction, Irene, here” he lists with a huff of annoyance “happy?” 

“Very” John smirks as he finally loosens the last of the lace, letting it fall free from Sherlock’s slender torso “just take it easy with the deep breaths, yeah? Don’t want your lungs to cramp” 

“Alright doctor, don’t get your stethoscope in in a twist- AH!” Sherlock gasps sharply and jerks in pain. 

John instantly puts his hands against Sherlock’s bare ribs, rubbing soothing circles to ease the pain, mentally screaming about the way he could feel his ribs without even applying any real pressure. 

“John” says Sherlock, surprisingly pain free “i was joking” 

A moment of silence wedges its way between them. John's hands continue to stay planted upon Sherlock’s sides. 

“That means you can let go now” the almost nude man states and John pulls away, as if burnt. 

“Sorry, just-” he pauses, keeping his hands by his side “-instinct...should’ve asked first..” 

“It really is fine” Sherlock turns in face John, a smile ghosting over his features as John tries hard to keep his eyes trained above his naked torso “just be grateful that your touch was softer than others who grab at me, or you would have had an elbow to the ribs” 

John chuckles, soon joined by Sherlock’s rich baritone laughter. The delightful sound fills their secluded space, bathing them. Smothering them. 

“So what are you doing for the rest of the night?” John questions, the first condition of his contract yelling at him from the back of his mind. He squashes it. What’s the worst a little flirting could do?

“Well it’s doubles night, so i dance--” 

“You dance beautifully by the way” John's tongue wets his top lip “--sorry for interrupting”

“No, its fine” he pauses “i love dancing, always have” he adds. 

“Perhaps you could give me a lesson sometime” the internal workings of his mind is scorning him, warning him to stop but he can’t help but need to pry at Sherlock. Like he is a puzzle that needs to be cracked. Even now in basically his underwear and knee high boots he is completely covered, guarding himself. 

“Perhaps, but like i said, it is doubles night and pockets of the inebriated are much looser” Sherlock states, diverting the conversation, reinforcing his walls to protect himself from John's interest. 

‘Fuck it’ John thinks ‘one more go won’t hurt’   
He gazes up at Sherlock’s face, feeling the doctorly need to inspect the barely visible divot in the man’s lip. 

“That still looks sore... probably best not to go kissing many strangers tonight” he knows it was a leap of faith but Sherlock seems to take it well as he allows a grin to stretch against his features. 

“You should consider it a good thing that i don’t make a habit of kissing horny men that stink of cheap bourbon and vomit” he quips. The distance between them seems almost too small as Sherlock gazes down at him with hooded eyes. 

John's tongue wets his lip again. 

“Yeah, well i-” 

A shrill, blood curdling scream shatters the warm illusion they had caught themselves in as they jump apart, looking toward the shut door. Just beyond the wooden walls, a girl is screaming bloody murder, terrified as her voice grows hoarse with the effort put into her shock. 

Together they dash to the door, both filled with concern as they step out into the corridor. 

A young girl barrels straight into Sherlock’s arms, nearly knocking him over as she sobs raw breaths. 

She’s screaming and crying and screaming and crying with absolute hysteria as she clings to Sherlock’s naked torso. 

“Rosie, breathe” Sherlock orders her, his hand patting her on the head, trying his best to soothe the young girl “Rosie, tell me what’s happened” 

John watches as numerous girls (and some drunken men) appear from rooms and hallways and stairwells to find out what has happened. 

“Abby! Abby-Abby! She--she!” the frightened girl gasps out between sharp breaths and shakily points toward the room at the end of the hall. 

Abruptly Sherlock dumps the hysterical girl into John's unsuspecting arms before racing off toward the offending room. Going about his business like a bloodhound, keen to get to the source of the girl’s fright. 

“Here” John passes Rosie over to another woman loitering in the hallway “just stay with her and calm her down” he orders before trailing after Sherlock’s hurried steps. 

He is quick to catch up to Sherlock, settling beside the semi-dressed man from where he stands in the bedroom doorway, glaring at the scene before them. 

“Jesus” John gasps, wide eyes taking in the gruesome sight. 

Laying upon the bed is a girl, or rather was a girl. In her place is a body, spread eagle on the blood soaked mattress with her entire torso surgically opened up to reveal her internal organs like a painting hung in the Louvre. In her mouth is a cloth gag, biting in the flesh of her cheeks and tears still brim over her dull, lifeless eyes.

Behind them, a girl retches and shields herself from the frightful scene. John turns to act as shield for both the girls innocence and respect for the dead. As he turns however, he notices the familiar face of Janine floating among the curious crowd. 

“Janine!” He calls to her, drawing her closer through the crowd “don’t look, i need to make sure the hallway is clear and get Lady Adler down here now” 

“Why? What’s happened?” she tries to peer over his shoulder to get a good look at what has caused this much commotion. 

“There’s been a murder”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooooh, it’s getting exciting now. This of course is where the warnings for gore and violence are introduced ‘cause I’m a stickler for murder stories. I hope you’ve enjoyed reading and ensure you that the best is yet to come! 💜💜


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seven chapters in and we finally get down to the gory details, just to reitterate: there will be blood, there will be human organs and death and general unpleasantness but other than that PLEASE ENJOY!

Sherlock paces the crime scene with trepidation as John looms by the bedroom door, now closed, shutting out the prying eyes of the household. Irene stands by the bed, dressed in a pristine suit of red and black silks, mourning the young girl that was drawn and quartered upon the sodden mattress. Her face still remains solid behind a mask of cold professionally as her hooded eyes sweep across the corpse’s pallid expression but the looming trail of a hastily wiped tear tells a different story of anguish. 

Irene quietly stretches her manicured hand down to close Abby’s hauntingly pained eyes. 

“Don’t” Sherlock snaps in her direction as he looks up from where he was inspecting the rope burns wrapped around her cold ankles “you’ll corrupt the integrity of the crime scene”

“I’m just going to close her eyes” she shrugs “out of respect” 

Sherlock stands and rolls his eyes before reaching over to do the respectful deed himself, “happy?” 

“Very” Irene nods, taking pride in twisting Sherlock to her will. 

“John, I need your professional opinion” Sherlock waves the Doctor over from where he is loitering in the doorway “how long would you say she was here for?”

Irene steps aside to allow John access to the corpse that lay as a gruesome centrepiece upon the cotton sheets. He crouches low to her bloodied body, taking in the colouration of her drained organs as well as the lingering warmth that clings to her skin like the last dregs of frost upon winter grass. 

“I’d say she’s been dead about three hours going by how warm she still is, she would have been alive for most of the surgery but her real cause of death would be that-” he points to the empty space in her chest cavity “her heart is missing”

Sherlock hums in agreement from where he is kneeling at the end of the postered bed, inspecting it’s undercarriage. “Not any more” he states as he pulls back from the bed “it’s right there” dogmatically he points to the pool of blood that has congregated by one of the bed posts. 

The half naked man stands from his position on the floor and begins to pace. His fingers are clasped before his mouth, no longer imprisoned by a dilapidating tremor. No longer itching for a stimulant of chemical manufacture. His blood is sweetened by the adrenaline of it all, by the atmosphere that smoothers him like the rampant crush of a rolling waterfall. His brain, dusted by stagnation, is finally put to good use and the feeling of finally inhaling clear air sweeps through him in addictive bursts. 

Something everyone craves. 

“Right so—” he sets off his monologue of the case with a swift clap of his hands “three hours-- that means she and the murderer first entered around four hours ago, any work of this skill would would have taken time and effort and knowledge of the body,

“She was gagged and bound willingly for her customer answering why there is very little signs of struggle-- her male customer, that is obvious from the unmistakable splashes of semen left over her navel” he waves a hand over the offending area “the sexual pleasure came after her death however just by looking at how it is congealed over some dried blood splatters, this show that sexual gratification wasn't the goal, a mere afterthought, 

“The kill was the prize, this was done with precision for their own fulfilment, this was an act of art, done simply for their own enjoyment of making another person bleed but then why go for the heart-” he is unexpectedly cut off to the sound of four strangers barging into the small room like a herd of spooked elephants. 

At the head of this pack of blundering idiots is a salt and pepper haired detective inspector, taking in the gory scene with widened eyes. 

“Lestrade” Sherlock addresses the DI with some irritation in his voice. 

“Sherlock” the inspector replies, his tone matching that of Sherlock’s annoyance. 

“You two know each other?” John questions from where he is loitering by the dead girl’s bedside. 

“Everyone is this establishment has a reputation with the police, John” Sherlock supplies “George here is always on hand to arrest anyone, like a good little lap dog for the government”

“It’s Greg and I- fuck it, i don’t have time to get into this again” the man scrubs at his stubble, sounding very tired and very pissed off “you need to go, this is a crime scene not a tea party”

Irene is quick to make her leave, having already paid her silent respects to one of her beloved girls. John glances over to Sherlock, standing with his arms crossed over his naked torso and appearing just that little bit taller due to the height of his shoes, looking like a god defying the order of a mortal. 

“No” the prostitute states cooly “i have already made numerous deductions that will help you solve this case 70% faster” silver eyes pinch into a penetrating glare “you need me”

Lestrade stares at him stonily for a few seconds before sighing, nodding his allowance for Sherlock to stay. He then turns to John, who is still standing by the bed, and opens his mouth to say something. 

“He’s with me”

“But who is he?”

“I said he’s with me”

Lestrade sighs in defeat while relaxing his shoulders in an disgruntled display of acceptance. Sherlock grins like a cat who has learnt to use a tin opener and turns back to the body, Raven curls bouncing with every energetic click of leather heels against the dusty floorboards. Lestrade barks some protocol orders to the other officers in his command while watching Sherlock pace the room in his burlesque glory. 

“As i was saying, she was taken in here about four hours ago, bound and gagged under the illusion of pleasing the needs of her male client. He then proceeded to slice her open for an hour--an hour and a half tops-- while she was still alive,

“Between fulfilling his task of cutting out her heart and removal he gets himself off, leaving the semen, he then takes her still bleeding heart over here” he acts out the removal of the heart as he waves his hands over the corpses body like a conductor of a grand orchestra, before trailing over to the corner of the room, pointing out the trail of blood splatters on the carpet as he moves “something is done over here” he points around the general area of the corner “and then it is thrown over there by the end of the bed”

“That’s brilliant” John states with breathless astonishment.

“You realise you do that out loud?” Sherlock turns to him. 

“Sorry--I’ll stop” he apologises, lowing his head away from Sherlock’s painted face. 

“No it’s...fine” Sherlock murmurs, almost shyly. 

“Sherlock?” Lestrade interrupts the budding connection of electrified thoughts like a a blade taken to a phone line, cutting off the small exchange, “Motive?”

“Oh yes-! motive” he catches ahold of his calculating train of thought once more, pouring coal into its blackened furnace to help it overcome being thrown from the tracks so suddenly, “he purposely targets her heart, delicately removes it, carries it across the room before he decides he doesn’t care for it anymore, but why?”

“Why?!” an instinctively annoying voice chirps from just behind Lestrade. From over the DI’s shoulder stands a stranger with the posture of a leering rat with an equally ratty face, glaring around the grimy room from where he lurks in the doorway, before landing upon Sherlock with a face of disgust, “what i want to know is why we are listening to a man only wearing panties and knee high boots!” 

Lestrade is quick to turn, opening his mouth to retort but Sherlock is quicker.

“Because, Anderson, I am better at understanding a crime scene more than you and your mediocre education ever will!” Sherlock hisses, taking pride in his verbal combat like a gladiator posturing himself in the adoration of his countless fans....or perhaps just John. 

“You live your life as a hole for hire!” the man spits “the only thing your better at is sucking cock!” 

Sherlock’s face turns red with outrage as his lip curls back in an animalistic sneer. No longer is he a gladiator or elegant dancer, he is a raging torrent of whipped emotion set off by the lawman’s indelicacy. Gone is the guarded mask of supremacy that adorns him like pale moonlight upon the push of ocean waves, he is encrusted with a red glimmer of unbridled anger much like a stallion rearing it’s head and kicking out to free itself from the harsh bite of a leather crop. His boots thud angrily against the moth-eaten carpet as he strides across the room to get at the rat-like officer, teeth bared and tearing off his cloak of composure. Underneath his stone carved expressions, it seems, emotions run high.

John watches in disbelief as the man bares himself of his weighted protection as he moves, fists clenched and face thunderous with eyes targeted upon the sneering man cowering behind Lestrade. The DI is quick to block Sherlock’s advancing march with his imposing frame, grasping Sherlock gently by the biceps and keeping him at bay. The prostitute stops dead, eyes wide and arms struggling to get out from the other man’s touch. 

The object of Sherlock’s frustration however does not go unharmed and is quick to find himself to be exposed to the weighted taste of John's army trained punch. 

“Don’t fucking talk to him like that” John growls from where he stands, watching Anderson pathetically clutch his already swelling jaw. 

“You two out! Now!” Lestrade orders at both the Doctor and the Forensic officer, pushing Sherlock to the side.

“If you get rid of John, you get rid of me and I won’t tell you what he did with the heart” Sherlock warns, an intense seriousness cloaking his facial expression as he stares at Lestrade. 

The Detective inspector sighs, “Anderson, go get your face sorted and collect a report from Donovan” 

“What! He just punched me--!” Anderson squalls. 

“I know and I will handle it but for now get out!” the silver haired man snaps. 

Anderson glares at Lestrade, then John and then finally landing upon Sherlock. Sharply, he turns on his heel to skulk out of the door, muttering numerous offences under his breath like a wounded dog. John makes a disgruntled face as he watches him leave but Sherlock merely rolls his eyes, temper restrained to restore his composure. Once again he settles back into his stone faced posture, ensnaring the ugly glimmer of human that escaped him in a moment of weakness. 

What would his brother say? 

He shakes his head if the faint husk of a thought that swirled it’s way to the forefront of his mind. Snappishly he crushes it like a low tar cigarette older the heel of his boots. 

“Right, John if you will so kindly hand me Abby’s heart from under the bed and I will shed light on this delicious conundrum” Sherlock grins, cooly pushing some curls from out of his face. 

John sighs in defeat as he takes a pair of gloves offered by Lestrade before kneeling down to retrieve the cold, soggy lump of muscle from its hiding spot beneath the bed. It is still wet with blood but now covered with lint and fabrics collected from the old carpet, almost like a gory dust bunny. 

Propped up on one knee, he presents the dead lump of muscle to Sherlock’s outstretched (gloved) hand. It looks like the type of proposal the Addams family would applaud. 

Lestrade chooses not to comment. 

Sherlock is quick to take it, turning on the spot to face the light fixture that protrudes from the wall before carefully pacing it upon the pedestal that supports the lamp. With baited breath they all wait for something to happen as the faint groaning of wood and metal scraping together, smothering the eerie quiet that shrouds them. 

They all take a step back out of surprise as a panel of the wall opens to reveal a hidden compartment stashed away behind the wooden boards of the wall. Inside sits a cobweb-cloaked skeleton, propped up like a mechanical fortune teller that frequents roadside circus’. It’s empty eye sockets stares out at them almost accusingly, jaw agape and speckled with freshly dried blood. 

“This has been here for years, it’s smaller joints already turning to dust in it’s dotage” Sherlock is first to speak, striding closure to inspect the skeleton and its gaping mouth. “But its jaw has very recently been prized open--” he presses his clean hand against the bloodied print that is imprinted against its crumbling mandible, still wet. 

He turns back to address the other two men in the room, “there was something in its teeth that was removed by our murderer, he then retrieved the heart and discarded it over there” 

“Fantastic” John breaths, still trying to comprehend the discovery. Sherlock smiles at him. 

“So what happened next? This man, no doubt drenched in blood just walks out the door and nobody noticed?” Lestrade questions openly.

“Well looking at how he missed all the main arteries—but he did nick a small one near her lungs, there wouldn’t have been much spray” John muses, “but that’s still around eight pints of blood that she would have lost-- he most definitely would have been soaked up his arms, face and chest”

Sherlock goes back to pacing the room. The floorboards creak and moan under his boot clad feet as he creates a small track in the ancient carpet. Habitually he paces from the right hand side of the bed, past Lestrade, and then over to the left hand side of the bed. He strides past John before spinning and reversing his route. 

He does this a total of three times in complete silence, ignorant of the odd stares thrown his way by John and Greg as well as the flies that begin to magically appear through the woodwork in search of ripened flesh. 

He sweeps around to John's side once more with an imperial swagger in his stride and pauses, his attention aimed downward at the bedside table like a hawk angling down upon the insufficient movements of a shrew idling in the grass. The Doctor and DI watch him as if his entire thought process is being projected onto his face, streaming endlessly unraveling flicks of ideas and deductions like he was a cinema screen, when suddenly the Detective drops to the floor like a sack of potatoes. 

John is quick to jump after him only to find that he’s absolutely fine, perched upon all fours with his head low and arse high. The satin panties trying their best to save the detective from indiscretion as he inspects a small blood covered pin protruding from the back of the bedside table. Awkwardly John averts his gaze from the distracting sight of those magnificent globes pointed in his direction in favour for Sherlock’s discovery. Silence clouds over them for an uncertain amount of time before Sherlock reaches out to touch it. 

Army trained precision and timing aids John in his reaction, rapidly lunging forward to grab Sherlock by his naked forearm and yank his outstretched finger away from the needle point. 

“Sherlock that pin is covered with blood, its filthy! You can’t touch that” John scolds as he lets go of the man’s arm. Sherlock rolls his eyes. 

“The pin is bloody for a reason-- look you can see layers of old blood that has dried over frequent use, people prick their fingers on it for a reason, how else would this much blood accumulated on a pin that is hidden at the back of the drawer?” Sherlock informs, lifting up an eyebrow in defiance. “He pricked his finger on it for a reason”

“But--but it’s not sanitary” John stutters, knowing the ins and outs of blood-borne diseases in gory detail. 

“Occupational hazard” Sherlock murmurs as he darts his hand out to prick his finger, faster this time to avoid the Doctor’s haranguing. With the sour sting of the sudden stab his face pinches and a fresh donation of blood trickles down the sharp pin, setting off a monstrous groaning of twisting floorboards and screaming bolts that have been awoken out of their idle slumber like some sort of eldritch horror lurking behind the chipped coats of paint. 

Immediately the wall before them opens up with a creaky moan to reveal a darkened passageway, decorated with cobwebs and lurking spiders. A cold breeze wafts through the new opening, pawing at Sherlock’s sculpted face and runs John's through John's hair, soft as a lover’s touch as it sweeps past them. It whispers to them, calling to them, beckoning them to come closer and explore its darkness. 

“A trigger that needs blood to active it and a weight pad that only works for hearts…” Sherlock grins widely as a gleam of perplexing excitement appears in his eyes. 

“So this is some sort of sick treasure trail constructed around death” John notes as they both get back to their feet. 

“This is the Rising Sun” Sherlock nods before turning back to the door, his flesh risen with goose pimples, a reaction from the eerie chill or child-like excitement? I can’t tell, “get your least annoying officers ready Graham and be ready in ten minutes, now if you’ll excuse me i need to get changed”

They both watch him as he strides elegantly out of the room in his semi-naked glory. Leather heels clacking upon the floor boards, echoing like distant gunfire as he disappears into the murky shadows of the hallway. John finally realises how hard his heart is beating as it gorges itself on the adrenaline found in the smell of spilt blood and the buzz of impatient flies. 

\----

There is a small gathering of police officers, equipped with lanterns in hand and guns fastened to their hips, stationed at the mouth of the passageway looking like baboons with a case of anxiety as they shuffle their feet nervously. At the head of the gathering is the silver haired DI who is currently arguing with the freshly clothed Sherlock Holmes. He has ditched his skimpy burlesque attire for a tailored suit with a rich, purple shirt and a charcoal belstaff that hugs close to his slender frame, tied together with a navy blue scarf wrapped snugly around his pale neck. 

John is standing beside him, listening to the Detective Inspector give his safety guidelines and Sherlock disagree with them. 

“Sherlock just listen or go” Greg warns with a exasperated tone.

“Go?” the man asks. 

“Yes, go” Lestrade states before turning back to the officers under his charge. 

John then watches as Sherlock just turns and starts walking into the darkness like he was going on a stroll through the park. John was compelled to follow after him in the The bleak unknown.

It is his job to make sure he stays safe after all. 

Sherlock’s lips tug into a discreet smile as John catches up to him and the dimmed light of his torch. They both silently agree to ignore the Detective Inspector’s shouts for them to come back as they continue to venture deeper into the shadowy passageway.

In the darkness, led only by the light of their gloomy torch, they wander the rat run of a corridor, battling many sharp turns and face-full’s of dusty spider webs. Their footsteps are often accompanied with the sickly crunch of a discarded rat skeleton that lays in the darkness of their path, adding just the special touch of ominous chills that John was begging to think was missing from this grisly murder mystery. 

“How on earth would anyone have known this was here, it was pretty well hidden” John puffs out an annoyed breath as he wipes yet another cobweb from his face. 

“Someone who is very familiar with it’s history” Sherlock states offhandedly as he continues to follow the light like a cat furtively stalking the trail of some concealed prey. 

“Huh?” the doctor’s brows pinch in confusion. 

“The house was built in the late 1800s as an attraction for a fairground that resided on the property” Sherlock begins “The Rising Sun was first used a house of freaks and showgirls but was soon turned into a sort of haunted house which soon became famous for it’s unbelievably realistic corpses”

“Oh..” John supplies.

“Oh indeed, it wasn’t until twenty years later was it actually discovered that the house had been designed to trap and kill its visitors to be used as props, the fairground was closed and The Rising Sun was shut, people wanted it to be torn down but the fact it still held evidence of murders it is protected by law to stay open, 

“So it is the only remnant of the fairground that stood here, being passed down from will to will to rot, that is until Irene got her hands on it and made something of it”

“So there could be a chainsaw on a hairline trigger waiting for us to blunder into it and decapitate us?” John inquires, hating how the thought of it sends a small thrill down his spine. 

“Yes” Sherlock turns to look at him, his still painted face highlighted in the pale light “isn’t it exciting?” 

“Just watch your step” the Doctor grins. Somewhere behind them they hear the loud bumblings of the police squad, carelessly stepping on rat skulls and loose floorboards. 

A little further up the passage they reach a wider impasse that has a candle- freshly lit- illuminating the deadens, which finally leads out into a well lit part of the house, as if it had always been there, open to the public. 

They both stop to investigate and secure their surroundings. 

“Any chainsaws?” John jokes but Sherlock doesn’t answer. He remains poised and furtive, scanning his eyes across every shadow that dances with the vibrant flicker of the candlelight. 

John turns to get a better look at what has entrapped the other man’s focus so expertly. Over in the corner, he stares with keen eyes, dissecting whatever lay within the shadows, intense gaze pinpointing it’s whereabouts. 

John squints into the darkness to try and see what Sherlock sees, but all he can spot is a swell of black nothingness, that is until Sherlock lifts his torch to inspect it further. 

In the far corner, illuminated by the torch’s gloomy light, a rat hangs in eerie stillness, suspended by a large fish hook that has been threaded through it’s gullet. Sherlock steps closer to get a better look at its fresh wound and gaping maw as it stares blankly into the darkness. 

With a steady hand, he removes the hook from rat’s throat but is quick to take cover when the weighted line snaps up into the rafters. Soon after the reaction, the opening to the rest of the house slams down, closing them in a dead end.

“Blimey” Lestrade’s voice calls from beside John as the rest of the officers catch up to them “how many more secret doors does this place have?” 

“Bloody good question” says John as he moves to supervise Sherlock, who is stretched upon his tippy-toes, blindly rummaging around in the darkened rafters in search of the reclusive fish hook. 

“Sherlock…” his voice is weary as he watches him pull the hook back down and thread the bloodied steel back through the rodents throat, leaving it to hang once more. Behind them the wall opens up, once again revealing the entrance into the house’s frequently used hallways. 

“Oh god” Lestrade stresses and they turn to look at him. 

At his feet, highlighted by both candle light and torches is a pile of rats, varying from fresh corpses to crumbling skeletons. Sherlock shifts his torch to illuminate the scene better to reveal multiple cartons of rat poison. A further inspection reveals a pile of discarded clothes, crumpled among the dust and skeletons and drenched in blood. Fresh blood. 

Sherlock and John watch as the officers carefully extract the evidence into plastic bags, cautious of the many little rotting corpses that litter the floor. The air is filled with the sickly cracks and crunches of bones breaking under their disrespectfully heavy feet. Sherlock rolls his eyes at their lack of finesse (and brain cells) before turning swiftly away to inspect more of the fascinating hall. 

John is quick to follow, a little unsure of what to do next. 

Together they wander aimlessly around the narrow passage, guided by the torch’s light, searching for more clues that could help unravel this superb little mystery. 

“What are we looking for?” John questions but is silenced by a harsh ‘shh’ sent his way by Sherlock as he inspects the panels of the walls “alright”. 

Sherlock continues to ignore him in favour of keeping his attention glued to the rotting wood. His gloved fingertips push and tap against the panels, trying to find the slightest inconsistency in it’s construction and texture. 

The intense inspection of the walls continues for a few minutes before something new catches the man’s eye. Quickly he snatches at a small roll of parchment that has been wedged in between the panels, edges crispy with age but lacking with a matching layer of dust. John watches with unease as Sherlock extracts the paper with care, waiting for something disastrous to happen with every centimetre it is pulled from it’s resting place. 

They both pause for a drawn out second as it is finally plucked free from it’s place in the wall. They wait and wait and wait for the ceiling to collapse upon them, or the floor to disappear beneath them or even a bloody chainsaw to come flying out of nowhere and decapitate them. 

“No chainsaw?” John asks into the darkness. 

“No chainsaw” Sherlock replies, a small grin ghosting over his face as he gets back to work, un-scrolling the paper in his hands. 

As he unrolls it he reveals the small, elegant handwritten message presented before him in the dim light:

The weight of a heart holds no candle to my complexion,  
You need not fight me for my affection,  
The Room of Stars is where you must withdraw,  
To unlock the key to my fortune from my jaw.

Both of them squint at the nonsense scrawled along the page. John pinches his brow in confusion while Sherlock draws it closer to read it again. 

“It’s a riddle” Sherlock declares with a slight hint of breathless wonder.

“Yeah I get that, but ‘The Room Of Stars’, what the fuck does that mean?” John questions into the darkness, still scrunching his face in confusion. 

“Les chambre des étoiles” Sherlock whispers to himself in an almost perfect french accent. 

“Huh?” John's still confused. 

“That’s it John!” the other man beams before rushing back up the darkened passageway “come on!” he yells back to the Doctor, who has been left behind in a slight daze at the prostitute’s sudden outburst. Though he is quick to take off after Sherlock, following the small flashes of light that bounce off of the walls just ahead of him. 

They soon find themselves back in the room of Abby’s murder. Sherlock is quick to move and begin to, unexpectedly, rip the wallpaper from the very walls. 

John gapes as he watches the display, almost certain the man’s lost his mind as he frantically scratches as the walls, tearing down slithers of the decorative paper with his manicured nails. 

“Stop staring at me like that! I’m doing this to prove a theory” Sherlock grunts, not caring for the mess he’s making at the scene of a young girl’s death. He’s too focused on shedding light on his jumbled thoughts “now get over here and help me!”

John, not wanting to argue, moves over to help tear at the wall paper that stubbornly clings to the wooden walls like leeches to warm flesh. Together they scrape away the faded pastel blue and green pinstripe decor to reveal the remnants of a time long since past. 

Laying under the wallpaper like a lurking spectre is the haunting words “les chambre des etoiles” painted across the wall in large, elegant calligraphy. 

“This was Amelie Laurens’ room” Sherlock grins, his expression lit up like a Christmas tree with delight, slightly peppered with ancient cobwebs and strips of aged wallpaper. 

“Who?” John is still very confused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woo! Chapter seven done and dusted, I want to add a special thanks to everyone who is enjoying this fic and leaving me with such wonderful comments and kudos’. Also you may have noticed that the chapter count has gone up, that is because I just had to add one more little bit to this story for when it reaches its conclusion. But that is a while away for now so I’ll leave you this chapter, til next Saturday 💜💜


	8. Chapter 8

“Who?” John is still very confused. 

“Amelie Laurens!” Sherlock snaps in frustration of the Doctor’s ignorance. 

“Yeah, still don’t know who that is” John snaps back. 

Sherlock huffs out a sigh as he spins to survey the room. The air is pungent with ripened death as the flies hoard together to take their share of flesh from the poor girl. John's nose crinkles at the familiar scent. His stomach hardened by the countless hours of sorting through the dead to find the barley living, which was always a lost cause because none of the survivors were ever truly alive, more like shells for a beating heart. 

Sherlock swats a hungry fly from his face in annoyance before turning back to John, his face also pinched at the sourness of the air. His finger twitch slightly. 

“As I earlier explained the house’s genocidal lineage I left out the other parts it was famous for”

John nods. 

“Yes well, not only was it a house for murder, it also was a theatre for astounding performances of dancing and acrobatics” he pauses “the star of these performers was the french born, Amelie Laurens--”

“You can’t just go running off on your own-- fucking hell it stinks in here” Lestrade interrupts as he appears from the darkness of the passage, cobwebs and dust coating his shoulders like a ghostly shall knitted by motherly spiders. 

“It seems your idiotic forensic team have forgotten to remove the ripening corpse” Sherlock announces loudly in a petty attempt at teasing the Detective Inspector. 

“What have you done to the wall!” Lestrade gasps, the smile of satisfaction is momentarily knocked from Sherlock’s face before hardening once again. 

“It was essential to further the case” he informs while picking a long thread of spider web from his coat. 

“You should have waited for me and you--” he points to John “where were you during this?”

“I was helping” John retorts, he’s seen the ugly face of death and returned to tell the tale, Lestrade will have to put in more effort into it if he’s going to intimidate him. “I’m only here to make sure he doesn’t get hurt, not get in the way of his ramblings”

“Unlike you, Lestrade, who very rudely interrupted me from informing my captivated audience of Amelie Laurens, so I suggest you do something useful like remove the corpse or better yet, shut up and listen” 

Greg shifts on his feet before turning to his officers, ordering for the removal of the body before turning back to Sherlock “go on then”

“Thank you” he takes a breath “Amelie Laurens was a performer here at the house when it first opened and was daughter to the master of the house, Pierre-Antoine Laurens, who was also the harbinger of death that preyed upon it’ customers,

“She was the house’s main attraction and therefore brought many of it’s unsuspecting victims through it’s doors, there was however a scandal close to the time of the first murder inquiry, in which Amelie was planning to run away with one of the members of security but was discovered by her father, the man she was planning to run away with was ‘banished’ but if anything from the events of tonight highlights, it would be more likely that he met a very unfortunate end, just like Ms Laurens over there…”

“Huh?” Greg and John utter simultaneously, their faces almost identical in their confusion. 

“The skeleton, The one in the wall” Sherlock offers with a shocked expression at how slow they were being “it’s Amelie’s skeleton, says so in the riddle”

“Riddle?” Greg asks. 

“But what does that have to do with Abby being drawn and quartered?” John asks. Greg is ignored.

“It has everything to do with the murder of Abby!” Sherlock retorts heatedly “my god what is it like in your funny little brains? It must be so peaceful--”

“Then tell us!” John snaps at him, his voice a shade deeper. 

“This riddle is a clue and this--” he waves his hands around the utterly destroyed room “this is all one big game, a treasure hunt leading to a prize which our murderer must deem good enough to kill for”

“I’m sorry but what riddle?” Greg questions again, still trying to untangle himself from the verbal yarn chart Sherlock is constructing before them. 

“The one I found in the tunnel, why are you still going on about it?” the other man derides. 

“You found critical evidence and didn’t tell me?”

“You were all the way at the end of the tunnel” he scoffs “it would have been a waste of time”

Greg’s face twists in silent anger as his posture stiffens. John is quick to intervene. 

“Alright, alright, Sherlock just continue” he directs the conversation back to the taller man, quashing the building tension. 

“Thank you” his eyes cut across the DI’s tired expression of defeat “I have no idea where he got the first clue or even the inclination to know about the ins and outs of the house but the second clue was taken right out of the mouth of our lovely Ms Laurens and will no doubt require another murder to continue, so I suggest you start taking my word as gospel or another woman might die!” 

There is a small pause as the entire room freezes over. A slight draft is still blowing in from the passageway, loosely gripping around their ankles and hushing sinister nothings in their ears. 

“Alright” Greg nods “what do we do next?”

The room slowly bursts back to life as officers in protective gear finally start to unbind the body from it’s unholy resting place. 

“Tomorrow the house will work as normal except you will have discreetly dressed officers on hand, searching for a man of relatively short build, not heavy set and brunet”

“Brunet?” Lestrade inquires, for everyone’s sake really. 

“Abby would only take brunet partners” he shrugs “what? We’re allowed to be picky” 

“no, no, it’s fine, helpful even” Greg corrects.

“but can we be certain he will turn up tomorrow?” John voices his concern, trying hard to detach his attention from the half-assed attempt the officers are making at ensuring Abby’s organs stay inside her. 

“Oh definitely, he got great satisfaction from not only retrieving the clue but also the murder, like many in this house he will come back to fuel his addiction, he will most assuredly be back as quickly as he can” Sherlock affirms with a pleasured grin stretched across his face. 

“Right; short, slight and brunet, anything else--?” 

“Sir!” a woman’s voice cuts through the air as she bursts into the room. She stands in the doorway, hunched over slightly to gain the breath she had exerted while running up the many steps and pushing her tightly curled black hair from her grinning face “you are not going to believe what I’ve just found”   
\---

They find themselves standing behind the bar, being pushed and shoved by the flurry of police officers that pace back and forth like ants; collecting things, carrying things, dumping things, repeat. In the corner the bar maids are being questioned as a group for information on the proceedings of the evening

Sherlock is growing more and more frustrated at the constant knocking of shoulders as the officers carelessly barge past him, evidence in hand. John watches silently as the woman who retrieved them, Donovan, gives a briefing of what she has discovered. 

“Are you sure you’re allowed behind the bar, freak? Wouldn’t want you getting sticky fingers” she calls out to Sherlock, making his nostrils flare in aggravation. 

“As hard as you may find it, not everyone who likes get to get on their knees has a worrying drinking habit” Sherlock glares “but you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

It is now Donovan’s turn to glare in muted anger at the sting of Sherlock’s venomous words. 

“Both of you knock it off, Sally continue with the brief” Lestrade intervenes, feeling too tired to really care about the childish snipes anymore. 

“Of course and by the way” she tilts her head to glare at Sherlock “I wasn’t talking about the alcohol, I was talking about this--” 

She stands aside to reveal a small stash of boxes containing neat rows of tightly sealed bottles and limes shoved underneath the bar. Inside one box however, stuffed between the lemon slices and straws, sits a clear plastic bag holding a fine white powder sprinkled over with small golden flakes that shimmer in the bright light. 

“Cocaine?” John questions. Ever since the incident which led to the collapse of society, drugs of every flavour became so under-policed and attainable they virtually became legalised. Why would they care so much about one small bag of coke when a bloody murder had just taken place upstairs? 

“No, look at the flecks catching the light, look at its flakey consistency” Sherlock critiques as he eyes the glittery substance “it’s Rising Sun” 

“Right, I want this place quarantined, no one comes in or out” Greg orders to the officers mulling about the room “I need to speak to Miss Adler, Donovan escort those two and the girls back to their room”

John has little time to protest before he is herded together with Sherlock and the other girls, stumbling awkwardly between them as they make their way up to the dressing room/bed chamber. 

“Don’t worry, doctor Watson, you can share my bed” one girl states from beside him. 

“No, come to mine, it’s bigger” another woman protests as she glides her hand up his bicep. 

“I assure you, my bed is much bigger!” another lady calls from somewhere in the group. 

“Yeah but mines comfier” someone else calls from behind him. 

“I, uh- well ladies I do appreciate the offers” he stammers. He can feel a slight blush dusting his cheeks as the women on either side of him lean closer. 

“Oh shut up all of you, he will be staying in my bed” Sherlock flares as he shoves his way between John and a woman pawing at him on his right. 

John can’t help but feel his heart hammer with anticipation. 

\----

The bedroom is an orchestra of noise as many women prepare for bed and chatter about the day’s events. John keeps his eyes firmly fixed on the floor as the girls remove themselves from his company, wishing him many sweet dreams as they wander to their own beds, some of which already have bed partners waiting for them between the covers. He wishes them all a goodnight’s sleep as he continues to avert his eyes from the many naked women as they prepare for bed. 

Sherlock leads John over to the familiar corner, bathed in candle light and the pale wash of the moon. Sherlock perches himself on the small seat to look in the rounded mirror, inspecting the disaster that is his smudged makeup. He observes John stand awkwardly in it’s reflection.

“What time is it?” John finally says something. 

“About midnight” Sherlock replies as he takes a wipe to his face, clearing himself of the evenings corrosion. 

“Right” John nods. His fists clench and unclench with unmistakable nervousness.

“You should get some sleep” Sherlock hints, head gesturing to the queen size bed pushed against the wall and it’s mountain of pillows “I’ve still got another three hours before sleep catches up with me and I want to do some thinking”

“Right, Ok, good” the doctor nods in affirmation. He reaches up to pull the jumper over his head but is stopped when he notices the many expectant eyes trained on him, like predators surveying prey from the shadows. Sherlock notices too. 

“I can move the screen over if you’d like some privacy” the other man states as he points to the vanity screen leaning against wall. 

“If you wouldn’t mind” 

“Of course not” Sherlock is quick to stand and grapple the folded screen into a firm stance, not caring about the disappointed shouts from the other girls as the doctor is hidden from view. 

“Oh shush, it’s not like you haven’t seen a man undress before” he argues at them, drawing a few giggles from the mob of women that look down upon him like angels lazing upon clouds in idle relaxation. 

“Oh and you haven’t?” Janine calls from her bed across the room, extracting a louder response of laughter. 

“Goodnight, Janine!” he groans at her, turning to hide behind the screen’s cover.

“Just keep it quiet yeah Sherl, we know how you get for the army types” she quips. Sherlock angrily flips the bird at her from behind his back as he continues to slink behind the vanity screen, withdrawing another round of hilarity from the crowd of women. 

Behind the screen, John is standing in a vest top and bright red boxers as he folds his trousers into a neat pile. Branded into his left shoulder is a twisted and ugly scar that stares nastily back at Sherlock. 

John tries not to watch as Sherlock reads every scrap of information buried into his marred flesh like a fire engulfing a forest in it’s blazing wake. Instead, he puts more effort into focusing on placing his trousers on top of his folded jumper and shirt, zoning out the eerie silence Sherlock is emitting. 

“Red boxers? Doctor Watson, you astound me” Sherlock teases as he tries to break the tension that clouds around them. John smirks to himself as Sherlock slinks past to sit back at his desk, wiping away his lipstick with practiced ease. 

“Glad I can surprise the great Sherlock Holmes” says John as he toes off his shoes and places them next the neat pile on the floor. 

Sherlock hums in agreement as he flicks both of his hands through his hair, loosening the curls as well as the cobwebs that stubbornly wish to make his soft locks their new home. John thinks it looks insanely adorable. 

“I like to sleep on the edge of the bed, just so you know” the man states as he pulls a drawer open to retrieve a packet of cigarettes before standing. 

John watches as he pushes the belstaff from his shoulders to lay it on the small seat while shoving a cigarette between his lips. 

“Those things will kill you” John claims as Sherlock brings the spark of a match to the end of the cig. 

“I know” the man nods as he puffs out a small circle of smoke away from John's face. He’s mysterious, not an asshole. “Get some sleep, John” he then stands on top of a mahogany chest that sits at the end of the bed to leverage himself up onto the rounded window sill, his smoke pouring out into the cold night air. 

John shakes his head as he climbs into the luxurious bed. Watching the silhouette of Sherlock smoke lit by the pale light of the clouded moon as he falls asleep, thinking back to all the stories of shadowy demons that lurk in the windows of unsuspecting households just to creep forward and steal the breath from his very lungs. 

It’s calming in a creepy sort of way. To know there is someone watching over him even after all the times he has felt so alone. He goes gently into the the gentle caress of sleep, as if suspended in the hold of an old lover. 

\-----

After years of army training you learn how to wake up instantly. After years of living in abusive household you learn how to sleep while listening for the slightest sound that doesn’t fit with the ‘house resting’, whatever that means. 

John is cursed with both of these vices from his violent past of gunfights and lasting bruises. 

He is woken to the feel of the mattress dipping beside him and the duvet lifting to allow another body to slide in under the covers. He opens his eyes to see nothing but inky blackness as the body settles under the duvet next to him. 

“What--?” he blinks himself to consciousness as he tries to sit up but a cold hand pressed to his chest stops him. 

“It’s me” Sherlock answers as he buries himself deeper into the covers. 

John feels a hot flush creep up his spine as he realises Sherlock is in bed. With him. And it’s Sherlock’s hand that is still pressed against his chest through the thin fabric of his vest. He curses the way a small pool of heat begins to grow in his abdomen, like a fucking teenager. 

“What time is it?” he needs to divert his attention from something other than the arousal currently poisoning his blood stream and numbing his mind. 

“Three in the morning”

“Done thinking are you?”

“yes”

He is quick to notice the shiver in Sherlock’s body. The burning arousal quickly turns to concern as he reaches for the ice block that is his Sherlock’s hand, shaking against his chest. 

“Fucking hell you’re freezing” John chides as he takes the other man’s hand both of his, rubbing over his chilled skin. “Why are you so cold?”

“You’re the doctor, you tell me” Sherlock accuses with a smile, though it is hidden in the darkness of the room. “I’ve always been cold, my brother used to say it was because I wasn’t human”

“What? No it’s most likely a lack of iron in your blood because you don’t eat enough” Doctor Watson scolds as he continues to rub at Sherlock’s hand “either that or you’re pregnant”

“I thought I was late” Sherlock gasps sarcastically as he pulls his now warm hand back to his body, drawing a deep chuckle from John across the mattress. 

“What about the other one?” John inquires as he reaches under the duvet in search for Sherlock’s hand. As he moves however, he strokes across more skin than he was expecting to find and pulls away in shock “jesus! Are you--”

“I sleep in the nude, yes” Sherlock affirms in the darkness. 

John is struck for words as he tries to get his mind back on track. Sherlock is in bed with him. Sherlock is naked. John is in his boxers. 

He feels the heat come flooding back to his groin. 

“Oh don’t get your red panties in a twist” Sherlock berates “I can put something on if it really makes you...uncomfortable”

“No, no-- it’s fine, its all fine”

“Good” Sherlock pushed his other cold hand in John's vicinity “thank you”

John takes the hand into his, gently rubbing the chilled skin in the darkness only stopping when he feels the limb relax in his grip and a small huff of warm breath ghosting across his cheek. Sleep has reaped the body of Sherlock in a matter of moments, reducing him to a snoring lump on John’s right. 

The heaviness of sleep is quick to smother him gently as it cocoons him with comfort and security.

\---

It is in the silence of the resting house that the police burst forth and just act like douches. Royal douches. 

The room bathed in the warm glow of the morning light and tender slumber of it’s inhabitants. All are deep in sleep, dreaming sweet dreams as they curl around their fluffy pillows or the warmth of their bed partners. Letting the gentle caress of covers pull them further from the harsh chill of the outside world and further into the land of ones own insanity. 

That is when the room is abruptly flooded with a cacophony of shouts and orders and lights being shined in faces and people being dragged from beds. 

A hoard of police officers rudely slam the dressing room/ bedchamber door open and switch on all the lights before scattering like rats across the room to rouse the women from their beds. Without dignity they steal covers from the unsuspecting women and yell at them to wake. 

The girls are quick to seek cover from the air’s chilly assault upon their bare skin. Some of them trying their best to conceal their bare breasts as they are dragged from the comfort of their pillows and bed partners, shouting and screaming with all their might.

Some officers restrain them with cold, impersonal conduct as they move the girls aside, dodging the fists and legs striking out from the disgruntled girls. Others however leer and let their hands slip a little in their grip of the struggling fighter, perhaps getting a better feel of the lady’s bare skin. 

The women scream and kick and bite and pull hair and grip covers and cry, calling for some explanation of what is going on. 

Tucked away in the far corner of the room, hidden behind a vanity screen of french origin, John wakes to the sounds of a war raging just beyond the paper walls. His pulse quickens at the memories of gunfire and bloodshed that flash to the front of his mind, spurring him like metal pinching a stallion’s hide to fight or flee. 

He shuts his eyes tightly to wipe the images from his ragged mind. Breathe. In. out. Pause. Breathe. Open. 

He arrives back into a world of light and noise as he blows out yet another deep breath from his nostrils. Hurriedly, he tries to sit up but feels his shoulder twinge with a sharp stab as it stirs back to life. He looks over to see the pliant face of Sherlock resting upon his shoulder. 

‘All those bloody pillows and you sleep on my fucking shoulder’ John grumbles inwardly as Sherlock blows a short, hot breath in his face. He smells of smoke. 

Charming. 

The shouts and cries are still raging from beyond the screen along with the shrill blow of police whistles. Yet Sherlock continues to sleep like the dead. Unbelievable. 

His scar twinges again as the weight of Sherlock’s head becomes alarmingly distressing on his waking body. 

“Sherlock, get up” he nudges at Sherlock’s limp body but it does nothing. He tries again. Harder. “Come on, wake up!”

“No mummy, I don’t want to go to school today” Sherlock mumbles as he nuzzles his face closer into the warmth of John's neck “they’ll hurt me again”

John doesn’t know who ‘they’ are but he feels a sudden need to kick them in the teeth. 

Gently he tries to move out from under Sherlock, desperately needing to find out what the hell is going on out there. 

The vanity screen is suddenly yanked back and left to clatter on the floor as if it were rubbish. That, of all things, wakes Sherlock up. John had sat up in a poor attempt at acting as protection for the both of them from the short, fat Detective Inspector, who’s sweaty bald patch glistens in the brightness of the room, that grins down at them. Behind him, many officers mull about, herding the girls into a large group in the centre of the room. 

“Ahh, the resident queer” the bulbous man grins. “And who’s this a new boytoy?” he chortles, pointing lazily at John as he interrogates Sherlock.

“There are many ‘queers’ in this establishment you’ll have to be more specific” Sherlock retorts back smugly as he wipes the sleep from his eyes, ignoring the remark made about John.

“Good morning Sherlock” the man continues to grin queasily “get out of the bed”

“Oh but Athelney…” Sherlock pauses to languidly do a full body stretch across the mattress, the covers slipping to reveal the smooth expanse of his upper torso “you’ve so often wanted me in the bed” he gasps in mock surprise. 

Athelney’s grin falters for a moment at the implication Sherlock proposes at him before it swirls on his bristly face again. “I have orders to search these rooms for illegal substances so kindly get up and stand with the rest of the ladies”

Sherlock stares at him blankly, his hand gripping the covers, not moving an inch. John pinches his brow in confusion until he remembers the glaring problem of Sherlock’s nudity. 

“I’m waiting” Athelney growls in impatience. 

“A little privacy?” Sherlock grips the covers tighter in his fist, face unwavering. 

“Privacy!” the inspector barks out, his face growing redder as he chokes on his own laughter “a man like you wanting some privacy!” 

John grits his teeth in anger as his fists clench. He’s going to fucking knock the yellowing teeth from his pudgy, red face. 

Sherlock places a hand gently over John's seething fist as a silent reassurance, subconsciously detecting the Doctor’s rising torrent of anger. 

“Fine” Sherlock gives a curt smile as he shuffles from the bed, taking the sheet that drapes over the duvet with him, leaving John in his boxers and vest top to be eyed by the officer as he follows Sherlock over to the women. 

Wrapped in his sheet, he looks like a prince lounging around in his silken robes as if blessed by the gods of old. He strides with his head held high across the room, the sheet trailing after him like the waves of a rippling ocean, lapping at his heels as he moves with grace and power. His curls are a wild mess that stick up in odd angles and catches the light to fabricate the illusion of golden dust weaved into the inky blackness of his hair, almost like the glow of a thousand stars that dance through the night sky. He’s a vision to behold as he walks over to his mortal peers that quake under the scrutiny of the police. 

That is until he is abruptly stopped by the snag on his sheet. He lurches forward slightly, the sheet falling down his shoulders, shaking the elegance from his posture as he quickly grabs the fabric to preserve his dignity as it exposes the top of his buttocks and naval. 

Both John and Sherlock look down at the train of the sheet to spot an officer standing upon the fabric, pretending to notice what they’re doing. Sherlock shrugs and tries to pull the sheet out from under the prick’s foot. 

Some of the officers snigger behind their hands as Sherlock fails to retrieve his sheet from their colleague’s grasp. John takes a step closer to Sherlock to try and assist him in his struggle. 

Sherlock however decides to, in every way possible, let go. 

His sheet flutters gently to the floor to pool around his feet, freeing his body to the chill of the air and the eyes watching him. 

Some officers gawk in surprise as others are quick to turn away in disgust as he throws his hands up in a teasing pose, eliciting cheers and shouts from the now rallied crowd of women. John is just trying hard not to turn redder with the blush that rises high up his spine as he averts his eyes from the pert fullness of Sherlock’s ass as he continues to walk over to the group. As if nothing has happened. 

Defeated with in his game of humiliation, the officer removes himself from the sheet to stalk away to do his job, allowing John to pick up the bedding as he continues to follow Sherlock. 

Once settled at the head of the crowd does he offer Sherlock his sheet to cover up. 

“No thank you, I’m making a stand, give it to Bonnie” he turns and points to the young, naked, lady huddled by the group that offers comfort as she sobs silently “she was groped so deserves more coverage” 

John nods in understanding, masking the way his blood boils with anger at the way they were being treated. He approaches the weeping woman with care, not wanting to startle her even more than she has been. 

“Bonnie?” he asks softly, the whole huddle of women gaze up at him “take this” the sheet is offered to her and she takes it with a grateful smile. 

“Thank you” she gasps out through watery tears, pulling the sheet over her shoulders to cover her shivering body. The other girls smile at him, mouthing ‘thank you’ as they help her wrap up. 

He is about to turn and return back at Sherlock’s side but he pauses in thought before leaning in close to Bonnie “if you point out the arsehole out, I’ll be sure to deck him” 

The huddle shakes with silent laughter at his remark. Bonnie dries her eyes.

“Might as well chin that pig, Athelney Jones for everyone's sake” one of the girls beams. 

“Not a bad idea, might get arrested though” John adds. 

“Ahh we’ve all been arrested, you’ll get ten hours in the station, tops” another woman goads. 

“We shall see then” he smiles as he walks away, marching back to Sherlock’s side. Which is exactly where Janine decides to settle. 

“What’re they lookin’ for Sherl?” her thick Irish accent asks as John comes close enough to hear. 

“Rising Sun” 

“No!” she gasps. 

“Indeed” Sherlock agrees as they continue to watch the officers completely tear the room apart. They hurriedly rummage around in their beds, clothes and makeup boxes, scattering their possessions round like raccoons that are high on meth and have found the biggest fucking bin in the world. Though Sherlock does make a face of anger when they pull his stratavarious out from under his bed and man-handle it.

“If there is even one scratch on the violin you’ll be paying!” he yells pointedly at the man foraging through his things like an animal. The officer ignores him. 

“WHAT IN GOD’S NAME IS GOING ON!” Irene screams from the doorway. All heads snap up to see the woman, cloaked in a onyx silk dressing gown that brushes over the floor with every furious stride into the room. Her eyes scan the scene hotly, taking in the sight of her staff grouped together like cattle, shivering, in various states of undress while the police tear apart their possessions. Lestrade barges in after her, expression in a similar state of shock.

Athelney, the man in charge, is targeted in her sights. 

“What right have you to treat my girls this way!” she shrieks, seeing red as she storms up to the monstrously fat man.

“They’re whores, what rights do they expect?” his insufferable grin continues to occupy his sweaty red features. 

Irene’s face screws up in unbridled fury at the remark, coiling her fist back like a viper preparing to deal a forceful blow. 

Lestrade, however, is quick to intervene, putting a small distance between the raging woman and the repulsive detective inspector. Irene looks up at the silver haired DI in almost shock as he deprives her of the justice she demands to give. 

“I will handle this madame” Lestrade assures “you go and comfort your girls and please give them my humblest apologies” he glances up at the sight of the crowd of women, Sherlock sticking out like a sore thumb as he waves hello, and their scattered possessions. 

Irene gives a tight nod, her eyes still stony with anger, before turning sharply on her slipper clad heel toward her staff. Instantly she reaches for the more shaken of her girls to offer comfort and hear their accounts, giving a questioning side glance at John and his attire (as well as Sherlock’s lack of) as she passes, before refocusing on the ladies’ complaints. 

Sherlock doesn’t care for his employer’s disapproving stare for he was too busy watching Lestrade tear the pompous prick that is Athelney Jones a new one. 

“I gave you an order to search these rooms!” he begins, voice already booming “in what possible way does that translate to wake these girls...and gentlemen--” Sherlock smirks “--rip them from their beds with no allowance of covering up and rip apart their possessions!” 

“Detective Inspector--” Athelney tries to pipe up but it quickly shushed by Lestrade. 

“I don’t want to hear it! You stood here and allowed the harassment of these women--”

“And gentlemen!” Sherlock calls from the group, eliciting a small rise of laughter from the mass of women. 

“-- and gentlemen, to go unheard--THERE ARE WOMEN CRYING!” he fumes, not caring if his volume rises to that of hysterics. He’s fucking angry.

“Detective inspector, with all due respect, surely they are used to that kind of treatment if they choose to work in an establishment like this” the man argues as if he is in the right. 

“OUT!” Lestrade yells in Jone’s smug, red face. The crowd gives a reinforcing outcry of praise, chanting for the man’s banishment. 

Lestrade releases a ragged breath as he watches Athelney disappear out of the room, tail between his legs like a beaten dog. 

“It’s all clear sir!” a young officer calls down to him from the banister that borders the second level of the room.

Greg nods his approval while turning to face the mob of disgruntled staff standing in their bed ware. 

“I give my most sincere apologies ladies…and gentlemen” his eyes meets Sherlock’s “we will leave you to return to your beds, I promise no more of this behaviour will ensure” 

At his words the women all disperse, chattering and complaining to one another as they head back to their respective beds, dodging the police officers that pass them on route to the door. 

Sherlock is quick to move back to his corner, followed closely by John, wanting to check over his possessions. He also wants to cloak his goose pimpled skin in the warm glide of his beloved dressing gown but prefers to keep that a secret while the police still drain from the chamber like the last droplets of water from a bottle. 

John silently collects his clothes that were strewn around the bed and floor, quickly clothing himself before helping Sherlock tidy his trashed quarters. 

“I should get back to my own room” he suggests as he stands the vanity screen back up “...check on the boys and Mrs Hudson”

“oh...yes, of course” the other man replies as he looks up from the violin in his hands “but meet me after breakfast, I need to fill you in on what I’ve thought about”

“alright, just show up at breakfast-- there's a murderer on the loose and I want to make sure you’re safe”

“He’s not coming back ‘till tonight John, I’ll be safe” he grins, putting the violin back into it’s velvet lined case. 

“Something tells me you’re not one for safety” John muses. 

“It’s a good thing you’re one for danger then isn’t it” Sherlock looks up at him with his ocean coloured eyes boring deep into John's as if seeing into his soul, devouring his emotions and thoughts and memories and fears and hopes all in one foul swoop. 

John just grins back at him, allowing himself to be opened up and surveyed by his piercing gaze before turning toward the door and walking away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was one of my favourite chapters to write with deductions, bed sharing and Sherlock being as nude as the day he was born. 
> 
> Kudos and comment are greatly appreciated! Thank you for reading 💜


	9. Chapter 9

Breakfast the next morning is a cold and silent affair as the girls nibble on their toast, refusing to look at the empty space at the table. Sherlock is late, of course, to this dismal affair. His forest of raven curls adorning neat rows of pink rollers in an attempt to tame the unruly thatch of hair as he appears in the elevator. Surprisingly he is without the cover of his dressing gown, instead favouriting a thread bare suit of jogging bottoms and shirt. With every second absent from his side, John had worried anxiously, digging nervous teeth into his reddened lip while Mrs Hudson just continued to pile food onto his already mountainous plate. 

He wasn’t hungry. 

Sherlock decides to park himself between John and Mrs Hudson, picking at John's food after a little fussing from the doctor. His mind, however, is somewhere else. Drawing pieces of red string together, looping them, cutting them to perfect his game play. Completely ignorant of the frigid blanket of whispers that has settled upon the breakfast. No longer is there a carnival of laughter and gossip. Only averted gazes and a few tears eyes as everyone picks at their toast and tea. 

Breakfast passes quickly. 

\----

“Come with me” Sherlock whispers in his ear as the others disperse from the dining room. John looks over curiously to see him elegantly unfold his legs from the chair and stand to full height. Gracefully he puts a hand to his curls, inspecting the grip the rollers have upon his curls, before furtively heading over to the door that leads to the Baker suite lounge. 

John glances at the table, dirtied with plates and leftover food. Mrs Hudson is already making a start at clearing the remnants of the meal away, sorting the cutlery from the crockery with care. 

“Don’t leave him waiting John” she smiles, scraping cold beans into the waste bin as she looks up “don’t you know? the game is on!” 

John gives her a grateful smile before picking himself up from the table’s bench and rushing through the door to meet Sherlock like an over eager puppy. 

The lounge is submerged in the warmth of the fire as it hisses and crackles idly. Embers pop onto the already scorched carpet as John passes, like a dragon giving warning shots in case he steps to close to it’s burning hearth. 

The man in question is sat in ratty pyjamas that hang loosely upon his body as he sits, with pink rollers in his hair, upon a white bench among the estranged lab occupying the corner. John approaches as Sherlock picks up a glass vial to put under his intense inspection. 

“What are you doing?” John asks as he comes to stand behind the other man, cocking his hip out to settle the weight onto one leg. His shoulder still throbbing mildly from where the dead weight of Sherlock’s head had rested on it that morning. 

When he had finally made it back to his own bed, after wandering the halls like an idiot for about an hour, he laid awake listening to Archie’s light snores and thinking about how peaceful Sherlock looked as he slumbered. How young and innocent he appeared, even as he muttered his unguarded fears about ‘they’ into the fold of John's neck. 

“Im checking my equipment” he pauses to pull out a small book from the waistband of his faded tartan pyjama bottoms “you can check this” he says before tossing the book in John's direction. 

“Ok but what for?” he catches the item, loose slips of paper spilling out as he opens the book to see short notes filling every inch of the once blank expanse. Slowly his brows pinch as he flips through the notes, confusion blossoming across his expression:

Devil’s weed: six bags: 17th February.   
Morphine: twelve bags: 26th March.  
China White: five bags: 10th October. 

“Where did you get this book?”

“I am checking my equipment for signs of Rising Sun to rule out the possibility that it was mistakenly made right here and you are looking through that book, which I stole from Irene, to check for any shipments of Ephedrine, Dexamphetamine and Mephedrone in the past two weeks” Sherlock lists as he swirls some clear solution in a test tube, watching intensely for any reaction. 

“You stole this from Irene?” asks John as he flips to the most current entries. 

“Yes, it was in her safe, not important” he pours the clear liquid into another vial “are you looking for those components?”

“Yes” he flicks through the book, trying to keep track of all the loose notes that slip from between the pages. 

“Have you done it?” Sherlock shakes the test tube violently. 

“Ye-- hang on” the doctor snaps as he hurries to the final entries. 

“These components exactly; Ephedrine, Dexamphetamine and Mephedrone” he orders as he places the glass tube next to the sparkling beakers. “Have you found them?”

“What was the last one?”

“Mephedrone” he groans with impatience while trying to stack his glass slides upon the table with neat precision. 

“Uhhh, no, I can’t find any of those” John states as he looks over the notes for the third time. 

“Oh that’s clever, is it clever? Why is it clever?” the man rambles to himself like an insane person, cocking his head slightly to the left as if he was looking right at the puzzle, trying to twist his gaze to untangle the chaotic jumble of all this information. 

“Why? What does it mean?” 

“Rising Sun was found in a single bag, behind the bar last night but looking at the shipment book and my own equipment there are no traces of it to be found. It wasn’t produced in this house” he informs as he turns in he perfects the row of beakers on the workbench. 

“So what? Someone planted it there?”

“Someone didn’t just plant it, someone made it, knew it’s components and it’s recipe and that hasn’t been made since--” he pauses with a jolt as he stares vacantly into space “oh”

“What? Since what?” 

“Carl Powers”

“Carl Powers?” 

“Yes that’s it!” he jumps from his chair with an expression of euphoria, some of his curlers coming loose in his locks. “Carl Powers was found nine years ago in one of the rooms, dead, after injecting liquidised Rising Sun laced with sulfur” he begins to pace. His steps clear and precise as his naked feet slap against the polished wood. 

“How--?” John is interrupted by the whirlwind of Sherlock’s thoughts.

“No one knew how!” he exclaims “they just wrote it off as being a manufacturing mistake which was impossible because Rising Sun was made in this very lab and Wiggins is an excellent chemist” he rambles “that and his shoes”

“His shoes?”

“They were missing” he states “I had only just started working here but even I knew Carl loved his shoes! He would never part with them!”

“So why would he be found in a room alone, poisoned and missing his shoes?” John ponders with his brows pinched in confusion. 

“So why would a drug that has been out of production from it’s only manufacturer due to a mysterious death suddenly appear behind the bar when a murder had just taken place?” Sherlock retorts John's question with his own. Their verbal repertoire bouncing back and force like a lightning rod taking on the forceful crack of pure, concentrated electricity, sending sparks of information whirling around the room with every word that play back and forth. 

John takes a moment to think the question over. 

“So you think the person who murdered Carl Powers is also the man that killed Abby and then went on to make and plant drugs behind the bar?”

“That’s exactly what I think” 

“But...why?”

“Good, you’re finally asking the right questions” Sherlock gazes at him with a wild look in his eye before reaching for one of the rollers coming loose in his hair “I'm going back upstairs to get ready, you stay here; sleep, eat, stare blankly at wall, do whatever you do to pass the time before opening hours but meet me behind the stage curtains before you start your rounds” he orders before turning on his heel to exit out the door he entered through. 

Leaving John to stare at the empty space where Sherlock just was. His heart pangs with a bitter taste of longing to be in his presence still. His skin still crackling with the overpowering smell of a recent thunderstorm, as if it has embedded it’s current deep inside him. 

Bouncing around his mind like lightning in a bottle. 

“Fuck” he curses to the empty space. He’s falling in love like a fool.

\-----

Sherlock is dressed in a slightly less revealing outfit than the night before, but nonetheless sexy. He’s traded in the heels for onyx leather boots that cuts off mid calf and the rest of his body is clad in a skin tight suit that looks like it’s about to burst at the seams. 

John is transfixed by the straining buttons that are just barely keeping the navy blue shirt together. He can’t help but selfishly hope the buttons give up in their struggle. 

“--you got it?” John only just hears the end of Sherlock’s question. He hadn’t even registered he was speaking. 

“Sorry?” he snaps his head up to look at the mans beautiful face and coral coloured lips. Was he going for a sea theme tonight? Perhaps pirate? 

Sherlock ‘tsks’ with annoyance before starting again. 

“You will stay with me in the stage room all night and while we’re working we will both be looking out for anyone that fits the profile, you keep an eye on the bar and I’ll keep an eye on the floor, okay?” he reinforces with a patronising nod of his head. 

“What about the police? Shouldn’t we cover more ground? split up?” John ignores the tone of Sherlock’s voice. 

“No, his hunting ground is the stage room, the police are bumbling idiots that will blow this investigation with trying to haul in the first man they see that roughly fits the bill” he scoffs “I need you with me, I will pick him out and I need you, Mr Intimidating Security Guard, to help me bring him down”

“Alright, fine, but the minuet you know-- really know-- who it is, you tell me straight away” he warns “don’t act like a hero and go-- go flirting with him just for a few more seconds of glory time” 

Sherlock bristles before heading to the stage exit. He pauses for a second, “I’d advise you the same” and then continues to the exit before merging with the group of girls gossiping in the corner, ready to start the night. 

John sighs and closes his eyes with anguish as he turns away toward another exit, preparing to start the night. 

\----

The night, surprisingly, goes smoothly as the hours tick by further into the gloomy ink of midnight. 

John prowls the stage room like a caged predator, pace, stop, observe, pace some more, stop. He’s been watching the strangers dance and sing and spill alcohol over themselves for the better part of four hours and to be honest it is grating on his nerves just a little. 

On a regular night he would spend a couple hours in the stage room then move onto patrolling the halls and the other smaller rooms that populate the labyrinthian house. But not tonight. He has to remain dead on his feet in the hot and stuffy environment to watch the unskilled flailings of shitfaced drunks move as one to the pulse of the music. 

A knock to his good shoulder pulls him from the thoughts clouding in his mind. He jerks up to see the intoxicated stranger that had collided with him and perhaps give them a shove back to the crowd like returning a stray fish caught in a net, back to the water. 

Only to be pinned under the piercing silver eyes of Sherlock staring back at him. 

“Find anything?” John asks over the loud thrum of the house.

“No” he leans in very close “pretend I’ve fallen on you… have you seen anything suspicious?”

John instantly puts his hands to Sherlock’s body, steadily pushing against him to act as a support for him. “No, just a lot of bad dancing”

Sherlock pulls back minutely “then keep your eyes peeled, he will be here soon” and with that he saunters off casually to the next man waving a twenty pound note in his direction.

A red hot poker of jealousy sizzles against his chest as Sherlock slides graciously into the man’s lap. Leaning in close, muttering something into the clients ear, not backing away from the rough hands that squeeze at his arse. He’s not focusing on what lewd things are being spoken back at him. His mind is elsewhere, eyes scanning the shadows, surveying the crowds, hunting his predator. 

John turns away toward the bar, unable to watch Sherlock grind down on the stranger lap, fully encouraging the man to tuck the twenty pound note into his back pocket. 

An abrupt splintering of glass pulls him from his clouded thoughts. It wasn’t odd for glasses to break, he’s cleaned up enough of it to know it’s a very natural occurrence during the buzz of the night. What is odd however, is that it was loud enough to here over the jump of house. Almost deliberate. 

Both he and Sherlock, along with a dozen others, look up to the bar just as the screaming starts. 

One of the girls sat upon the bar is clutching at his face while screaming in shrill agony. Her face is screwed in a twisted depiction of scrutinising anguish as she kicks out at the smashed glass. The crowd around her is stunned to silence like a herd of sheep as they watch her writhe on the countertop. 

That is until she is unceremoniously pushed backwards into the arms of the shocked bar maids by a shadowy figure that slashes through the rippling crowd like a bullet. 

“John!” Sherlock screams at him from across the floor as he jumps up from the strangers grabbing hands to leap into action. 

Without a moment's hesitation John is chasing behind him, nipping at his heels as they go racing after the suspect. 

They push past the hoards of dancers and gatherings of junkies as they swiftly amble up the flight of stairs in chase of their man. Muscles burn with the quick combustion of adrenaline that courses through their veins and blood pounds in their ears as the seedy air brushes past them, cheering them on in their hot headed pursuit. 

Sherlock is leading by a league, his boot clad feet pounding against the creaky floor boards as well as a few toes. He’s screaming at the obstructing people to move with a breathless urgency, pushing them when they would not heed his warning. 

John offers half-hearted apologies at them as he passes, more focused on the sweet blossoming of the danger that flows through him. 

The chase drags them deep into the darkened corners of the house, cold and stony with the lack of warm bodies and golden light to thaw out the shadows. The only preserver of the idea that life did inhabit this spot is the window, pushed wide open, at the end of the hall. The wind calls through the hollow walls, pushing dust around the empty space as if to mock them in their magnificent failure. Their suspect is gone. Flown the coop. Jumped ship. 

Sherlock dashes to the end of the blank corridor and nearly throws himself from the open window in his raging urgency. Calculating eyes dart to every roof tile, every crevice where their man could hide, could skulk away away like a scuttling spider. 

Nothing. 

With a growl he pushes back through the window and spins on the spot, interrogating the rotting floorboards and the disturbed dust for any trace of their bloodthirsty friend. 

John decides to do the same, though not as brilliantly as Sherlock, and takes to touching the walls with intense purpose. He knows the tricks this man can pull, melting back into the walls like a spectre to pop up out of nowhere. Any misplaced nail could be a clue as to where he may have slithered away. 

“He was right here! I saw him” Sherlock slams the heel of his hand against the window sill “he can’t have just vanished!” he spins back to John before wildly pacing the floor like a caged panther. 

John takes a step toward him to offer a hesitant display of comfort but halts on the spot at the sound of paper crinkling under his heavy tread. Curiously, he gazes down at the slither of paper peeking from under his boot. Cautiously he moves his foot away to reveal the crushed note, wrinkled with folded lines and laden with ink. 

He picks it up, eyes widening as he scans over the scrawled calligraphy; 

I look like ivory, I shine so bold,   
My making more expensive than my weight in gold,  
The price needed for my unveiling,   
Is the donated air of a victim’s wailing,   
Pull me down from the heavens above,   
Know the fate of her lost love. 

“Sherlock--?” the note is snatched from his grip before he can even finish calling for the other man. 

His silvery eyes penetrate the paper as he scans it with the intensity of a trained bloodhound hunting a scent. John's mouth goes dry as he watches him pick apart the document right before him, following the movement of his full lips that breathlessly mouth out the spidery rhyme. 

“It’s the second clue!” Sherlock praises as he rears his head back up to gaze intently at John. He’s smiling. Such a juxtaposition to his stormy disappointment that weathered about him only moments ago. 

“He must have dropped it while he was running”

“Foolish error” he plunges his head back down to the note and furrows his brow “I look like ivory? Donated air? This makes no sense”

He pushes past John in a flurry of movement, paper clenched in his fist as he strides away. 

“Where are you going?” John calls to him, marching after his long gate down the winding corridor. 

“I need to think!” 

\-----

Sherlock rushes down the grand staircase, taking two steps at a time, not caring for the women he shoves past on his pursuit to the bar. His fellow staff yelping and bristling at the coarseness of his handling. John, of course, apologises. 

The stage room is a flurry of police officers and drunken rubberneckers as they are kicked out by the staff. The bar is crowded with bumbling officers that try their best at pushing the girls, that are trying to get answers as to what happened, away from the scene. 

Sherlock, who sees himself above the ran of the idiotic officers, simply pushes his way to the front of the human barrier. Only to be pushed back. 

“No civilians past this point” the thick northern accent slurs back at him lazily. 

“Civilian! I’m the bloody head of this investigation! Don’t tell me where I can and can’t go!” Sherlock seethes at the tired officer who really couldn’t care less.

“Jacobs, I’ve got another hysterical one” the man calls idly to another officer that is mulling about behind the bar. 

“Hyster-- I’ll tell you who’s hysterical--” his sharp tongue is cut short as John bodily hauls him backwards, saving the officer from an onslaught of insults that were about to be spat at him.

“John, what the hell are you doing?” Sherlock struggles in his grip as he is dumped on the outskirts of the crowd. 

“Calm down, you kicking up a fuss won’t help anyone” John advises wisely, trying his best to keep Sherlock’s attention like a spooked horse. Stay calm. Even breath. Low voice. Keep control. 

“Fine, but if those idiots call me hysterical again--”

“Yeah, yeah, you’ll bite their heads off, whatever, just find us a way in” at his words Sherlock snaps his head up, twisting left to right, searching. 

“Janine!” he calls as his eyes light up with that familiar glint of brilliance. 

Out of the crowd she appears, her long auburn hair flowing down past her shoulders, brushing up against the turquoise fabric of her dress. Her face however isn’t as cheery as it usually is, he movement is more enclosed as she picks at her fingernails and keeps her gaze low. 

“Sherl? Where have you been? We’ve been worried, that handsome inspector was searching for ya--” she starts with her ramblings, a manicured hand reaches up to clutch at his bicep. 

“Janine there’s no time, where’s kitty? I must speak with her” he shakes free from her grip, hurriedly trying to pull answers from her.

“She’s in a bad way Sherl, bastard spiked her drink, luckily Donna knocked it from her hand before she got more than a mouthful” she explains “but whatever he put in it must have given her an allergic reaction, she was screaming bloody murder as they took her away”

“Yes but where? Where did they take her?” he probes, practically shaking her at the shoulders. 

“Irene’s office”

Sherlock takes off without a second’s hesitation, leaving John and Janine begins in his powerful wake. 

\---

He bursts into the room with a powerful stride, allowing the heavy oak door to slam back against the wall. All eyes snap up to glare at him as he walks into the room like a coveted prince, head held high and shoulders square. 

After the initial shock of Sherlock’s intrusion the room goes back to its morbid buzz as Kitty, curled up on the couch, wails in ragged agony. Crying into the cup of her hand as Irene and another woman, the one that sits beside her during meals, tend to her like mothers nursemaiding their child.

John is close behind Sherlock, soon appearing in the room, eyes wide as he takes in the scene. 

“A doctor, finally” Irene applauds as he makes his way past Sherlock, towards the crying girl. He ignores the patronising tone in favour of sitting down beside the couch to apply his medical skills to the situation. 

“Kitty? It is Kitty isn’t it?” a woeful moan is all he gets for an answer “Kitty I need you to look at me, can you move your hand? That’s it--oh”

The room is shocked into muted horror as the girl reveals the source of her plight. A massive burn, raw and blistered, is plastered from the top of her lip all the way down to the hollow of her throat. She winces with every gasped breath as tears roll down her flushed cheeks. 

“John, what would have caused this?” Sherlock is suddenly right next to his face, breathing hotly against his ear. 

“By the severity…” he pauses trying to think of the words “I’d say vitriol”

“Sulphuric acid” An eerily happy grin stretches upon Sherlock’s face as he pulls away to stand at full height, fingers coming up to to rest just before his painted lips, dressing himself in thought. 

John follows him with his eyes, trying hard not to crack a wide grin at the knowledge that has just been uncovered before them like a treasure chest. There is a girl lying in agony right next to him of course- not the best of bedside manners to start giggling at the ludicrousness of it all. 

“Its him” they say in unison.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little update on the last day of me being seventeen! So this is a little pre-birthday gift to myself and you lot (I’ve got an even bigger one this afternoon by going to see the play Martin is in! I’m so excited!) I hoped you enjoyed this little chapter! 💜💜


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologise for the slightly late entry but I was celebrating a friends birthday but I hope you’ll be glad to know the wait has ended!

The one place John didn’t expect to end up during this thrilling night of high speed chases and emergency medical care was a client bedroom, with Sherlock. 

After their unexpected appearance down in Irene’s office to sit at Kitty’s wailing bedside, in which John prescribed the burns be flushed with water before applying a mixture of soap and milk to soothe it, they were banished. Kicked out by Irene’s stiletto clad foot to bare the dark, loneliness of the barren staircase that lay before them. 

Sherlock’s fingers twitched with the need of a cigarette. Or a violin. Or a needle. 

John watched him huff out an impatient breath before storming off up the stairs to brave the shadowy hallways that the house is abundant in. After a moment’s hesitation, he followed. 

Which is how they ended up here. In the bedroom. Alone. 

John sits in silence, watching the furtive movements of Sherlock as he paces the carpet, back and forth. Back and forth. The doctor’s eyes are glued to him as he moves like an animal in a zoo, brooding quietly with a cigarette clenched between his lips and brows deeply furrowed. 

“Sherlock--” he tries to break the silence between them. 

“Shhh” the man is quick to hiss like a brash serpent, quietening John immediately. 

“Sherlock--” he tries with a harder note to his voice. 

“Shhh” 

“No, no, listen” Sherlock pauses mid stride as if frozen “you’re going to wear a hole into the floor, just-- just tell me what is going on in that brain of yours”

Sherlock pulls the cigarette from between his full lips, sighing deeply with the expulsion of a plume of smoke before flicking it towards the ashtray. With an air of heaviness he collects his violin from the chair that sits ominously in the corner, pushes it under his chin, raising his bow gracefully before sawing it across the strings to pull a tortured scream from the instrument. 

John clenches his teeth at the high pitched shriek of the violin, finally understanding why the girls absolutely refused to let him ‘think’ in their shared bedroom space. 

Sherlock however doesn’t seem to care for John's poor eardrums nor the cries of his beloved instrument that pierce the air under his sadistic actions. 

“Well at least give me the riddle so I can work on something rather than just listen to you have a strop” John grumbles as he stands. 

“Breast pocket” is all the other man says as he strikes the strings once again. 

With a huff of expiration, John moves to press up behind the tall form of Sherlock. Awkwardly his hands fumble across the plains of Sherlock’s chest, the tightness of his clothes leaving little to the imagination as he pats blindly at what he thinks is a pocket. 

“That’s my nipple” Sherlock says pointedly and John is quick to move his hands, mumbling an apology as he goes, still looking for the pocket. “For god’s sake--” he drops his bow and digs the note out from where it is hidden in the folds of his tight shirt “here!” 

The note is thrust into John's hand with irritated force as Sherlock resorts to plucking at the strings agitatedly. The doctor ignores him in favour of his place upon the mattress, where he can study the note to the tune of less a disturbing ambiance. 

“Like ivory and it shines…” he pauses in thought “so it’s white and it shines”

Sherlock only replies in sharper plucks of his strings and short puffs of smoke. 

“Expensive…a price? Could it be talking about the cost of death?” he is still met with the distant thrum of the violin.

“Donated air? So it needs oxygen, but then it goes on to talk about a victim’s wailing” he pauses once more, face screwed in concentration “so it needs a victim to scream?”

“For god’s sake, John, that part doesn’t matter” Sherlock bursts forth from his silent brooding in the corner, thrusting the violin back onto the chair as he turns to face the other man “why on earth would he use such a noticeable spot to attack Kitty so clumsily! He took Abby with such ease! Why has he so suddenly changed his method? It make no sense” the cigarette falls from between his lips during his outburst to be crushed under the heel of his heavy boots. 

“well... maybe he got flustered-- or cocky” John sits up straighter in the dip of the mattress to present solutions to the questions. 

“No!” Sherlock is quick to dispute “he’s precise, he takes pride in what he does-- you saw Abby’s body, he knew exactly what he was doing”

John is quiet for a moment before choosing to stand as well, subconsciously disliking the even greater imbalance of height. 

“So then you’re suggesting he knew that Kitty would scream the house down the moment the intentionally spiked drink touched her lips” 

“Yes!” he goes back to pacing with frustration “why would he draw attention to his abduction in progress” he reaches for another cigarette tucked behind his ear. 

“What if he wanted it noticed?” John questions. 

Sherlock goes still. His limbs freeze in motion as if he has suddenly turned to stone. Cold and unseeing, his eyes stare out into a place beyond existence as John's words turn in his head, over and over like a broken record. 

His mouth forms a perfect ‘o’ shape before he reanimates into a jumble of energy before John's very eyes. 

“Oh that’s brilliant, yes! He did that to Kitty for no other reason other than to pull our attention away from another murder that was already happening because it had already happened” his body ripples with burning energy as he continues to move his feet on the spot like an excited thoroughbred that is straining for the chance to tear up the race track.

“You’re saying he had already killed a girl?” John puts a steadying hand down upon Sherlocks bicep to ground him, years of handling unsteady beast, both in battle and at home, bubbling to the surface. 

“But that can’t be right” the other man stalls again like a car battery. He doesn’t push John away “we did a role call just an hour ago and everyone was in attendance”

“Does it have to be a girl? A customer maybe--” 

His words are cut off briskly by the harsh push of Sherlock’s lips against his own. Now it’s his turn to stall. His brain struggles to register what is really happening as he looks in shock at Sherlock’s closed eyelids, desperately trying to figure out how they went from solving grisly murders to kissing in the dim candle light. After a moment's hesitation he begins to soften his lips against the almost clumsy movements of Sherlock’s. As quick as it happened however, Sherlock is pulling away with a wide grin and turning toward the door. 

“We haven’t a moment to lose!” he shouts while striding out the door, wind already combing through his hair. 

“Where are we going!” John calls to him, still caught in a daze as he watches the mad man whirl out of reach. 

“The chandelier!” 

Not letting another second go waste, John bursts into action, trailing after Sherlock’s shadow with a breathless smirk. 

Together they race through the winding corridors and leap over creaking floorboards. The eerie artworks that hang upon the walls watch them go, silently cheering on their bounding strides through the splashes of light and dark that bathe the halls and stairways. The cold breeze rushes past their faces, the blood pounding in their ears and the sweet sing of the chase coursing through their veins. Satisfying their selfish cravings, feeding the addicts within.

They burst forth from the darkness of a slightly familiar hallway, landing beside one of the grand staircases to come face to face with the blinding light of the stage room. John shields his eyes from the overwhelming glare of the many, many lights that permeates the usually dim room. Sherlock, merely squints a grimace as he glances up toward the chandelier that hangs above them. 

He huffs an impatient growl, taking off up the nearest staircase like a phantom storming off to brood angrily in their roost. John pulls his hand up to act as a guard over his eyes to seek out what had caught Sherlock’s attention before looking away to settle his rolling stomach. 

Swinging gently above him is the awe-inspiring chandelier but what is so chilling about it now is the large set of lungs that are suspended to its base, still dripping blood as it weighs down the delicate light fixture. 

It takes him a moment to pull himself from the nausea that squeezes at his stomach before he can even think about joining Sherlock at the top of the stairs, where he has recklessly sped off to inspect the trails of a murderer. A murderer that may still be reveling in the the freshness of a kill like a shark reaping blood in the waves. 

That thought sobers John up and spurs him on to reach the unprotected man, the weight of his gun snug against the small of his back where it lays in waiting in the waistbands of his trousers. Breathing a lungful (wrong choice of words) of the most fresh air he’s had in a long time he takes to the stairs in pursuit of the other man. 

He finds Sherlock with his hips pinned to the frail banister as he leans over the railing to inspect the chandelier, now weighted down to hang closer to the banister. As John approaches the lungs no longer hold his attention but rather the candelabra itself which shows off its sinister design of a binding of bones. Human bones. 

Femurs, ribs, humerus and many other polished bones have been cleverly combined to create an impressively twisted artwork, with a human skull sitting at the centre of the contraption that sports a bloody handprint, much like the ghostly face of Amelie Laurens. A shiver runs cold down John's spine as he eyes the sinister object which he has unknowingly admired for days. 

He watches as Sherlock turns his attention from the bloodied maw of the chandelier in favour of the carpet below his feet, causing him to pull away from the rickety banister which he was leaning his weight against. John feels the tightness in his chest loosen slightly. Sherlock lowers to a crouch as his inspects the railings with a concentrated squint before sharply shifts his gaze down to the carpet. He stills like a bloodhound expertly tracing over a prized scent until shuffling forward on his knees like an overexcited child to follow the minute trail of blood splatters that blend into the rouge carpet. His weight making the floor beneath them hiss and creak as he rushes toward a closed door that sits innocently in the hallway with John following closely behind. 

Without a moment of hesitation the door is pushed open to reveal the gory sight that lay before them. 

Upon the bed lay the body of a man, a vacant expression of agony plastered across his face and a gaping hole in his chest cavity. The victim’s ribs had been prized open, sticking from the ripped chasm in the cruel imagery of a present that had been shredded by an eager child on Christmas. 

Sherlock jumps up to his feet, a sneer of displeasure masking his face as he stoops into the bedroom. John pursues him with caution. 

Sherlock studies the room with as much intensity he had directed to the last crime scene. Inspecting every fold in the duvet, reviewing the slightest tred in the carpet, examining all the minute details that seemed invisible to John but staggeringly important to him. 

John went about his business, putting some of his post mortem skills to good use as his checks of the the body. The very noticeably lungless body. 

“Right, looks like he with hit pretty hard around the head, probably killing him and there is of course his missing lungs--well their not missing we know where…” he trails off as Sherlock without fanfare decides to leave “Sherlock?”

The man refuses to acknowledge him, continuing on his way toward the staircase. John is quick to follow to their location unknown. 

\---

Irene’s office is the apparent target of Sherlock’s silent fixation as he abruptly pushes the grand oak door open without even bothering to knock. 

Inside the room, lit only by the half decent glow of a dying fire, lays the slumbering body of Lestrade in the Ladyship’s wingback chair. The couch is vacant of Kitty’s pained body, either taken to the hospital or the morgue they didn’t know. 

“Lestrade!” the man in question snaps his head up at the rude awakening, hand diving for the pistol safely stowed at his hip “for god’s sake be more alert, our murderer could have done a ballet performance in this room and you still would be snoring like a fucking rhino now get up!” 

“What is going on?” Irene, draped in her satin robes with a sleep mask covering the upper half of her brow, emerges from the back room. 

“Mr Melas is dead” 

\---

“This is Mr Melas, Doran Melas to be exact who is--was a regular of the house, lovely chap, brilliant linguist, who had a cursing love of the game of poker and has, as you can see, had his lungs removed” sherlock states dryly from where he looms over the corpse. 

“Anything else?” Greg asks, watching Dimmock tke hurried notes as the rest of the officers collect anything they deem important from the room. Sherlock chooses to ignore them lest his headache worsen by just gazing at their incompetence. 

“To do everything myself…” he huffs with an impatient eye roll “Mr Melas was taken up here early in the evening and given a large dent in the back of his skull for his troubles, John…?” a questioning ause in the dr’s direction rouses him from his stationary daze at the foot of the bed. 

“Wound that big to that part of his cranium... i’d say his death was almost instant” John provides as he watches the young officer scribble down every word like a reporter hungry for a story. 

“Exactly so our killer wanted Mr Melas over and done with as quickly as possible so he could store his body up here like a pack rat which he could return to at his pleasure to remove the body part of choice” Sherlock waves his hand over the cold, motionless body of Melas “so during that brief window of time he came back down to the stage room and cunningly muddied the water with his little vitriol throwing trick--”

“But didn’t he escape through the window? How did he get past the lock down?” Dimmock looks up from his pages of scribbled notes to gage Sherlock’s response. 

“He never left” he shrugs “if the first murder taught us anything it is that whoever is doing this knows this house intimately-- knows its passageways and hiding spots, he simply slunk into one while John and i chased him, only yo come out when he was sure everyone was herded away so he could retrieve Mr Mela’s lungs at his own leisurely pace, leave his congealing trace against our victims left thigh before attaching his stolen prize to the chandelier made of Ms Amelie Laurens’ banished lover”

“The security guard?” John pipes up. 

“Obviously, it say so clearly in the riddle” Sherlock huffs, pinching the bridge of his nose. 

“What riddle?” Lestrade questions, brow furrowed. 

Sherlock gives an almost pained sigh as he rocks on the balls of his feet in a childlike display of boredom. 

“The riddle the murderer dropped while we were chasing him, do keep up”

“You found a piece of evidence and you didn’t tell me!” Greg’s voice elevates slightly in his new found anger. 

“You didn’t tell him?” John queries, a little bit surprised by the information. 

“What would he have deduced from it that i wouldn’t? It would have been a waste of time and not helpful to anyone” Sherlock growls back at the onslaught of questions like an animal under attack. 

“There is a man lying dead and a young woman suffering from third degree burns!” Lestrade is yelling now “whatever you thought you could do by hoarding the information to yourself didn’t help anyone anyway!”

Sherlock scrunches his face before opening his mouth to lash out a fiery retort but Lestrade is just that little bit quicker. 

“No! not now, you’re going back to your room and waiting there ‘til morning-- Sally escort him there” 

Sally perks up from where she has been lurking in the shadows, silently watching the hurricane of disaster that is Sherlock having a tantrum. She moves over to crowd the unruly man toward the door but is currently cut off by John's arm in her way. 

“No, i’ll take him, i am the security after all” says John as he acts as a distance between Sherlock and he advancing officer. Lestrade gives a tired nod, energy drained from his sudden outburst. 

Sherlock takes that as his cue to storm off with muted ire, his curls bouncing with the power of his lengthened stride and his fingers twitching for a cigarette. Or something stronger. Much stronger. 

John bites at his lip before following after him. Gearing himself up for what may come. 

\---

He bursts into the room with an irked expression twisting upon his face as digs deep into his pocket for a cigarette, needing a stimulant. Needing something to widen the keyhole of this locked door of a mystery just that little bit wider. Something to set the thoughts that are currently racing around in his brain in a flurry. Spiralling in unstoppable chaos like a crashing plane. Eating at eachother like starving wolves. 

He can’t pause. Can’t breathe. Can’t think. 

The nicotine floods his lungs, fills his veins, chokes his throat. 

This man is toying with him, playing with him, torturing him like a cat does a mouse. He exactly where to be, where to stay, who to target, who to attack like a spider in the centre of a web, observing its silk threads with hungry glee as it waits for its prey to come to him. 

And Sherlock had done just that, like an absolute fool, jittery with the need of bigger and bigger high. Just like a stupid teen that would huddle into the shadows of the most ceedy of pubs, taking what men would give just for a few milligrams of his life blood. Just for a chance to breathe. A chance to fly. 

Oh, Sherlock... 

His eyes snap shut in anger. How dare his mind bring forth such evil memorise in a time of weakness. In a time of such stupidity.

You always were so stupid… 

His hands move up to clasp the curls atop his very head and pulls. Hard. His scalp screams but his mind screams louder. 

He doesn’t realise that the pressure upon his scalp has been removed until he feels the warmth of two arms encompassing his slender frame. Holding him. Supporting him. 

He freezes. The warmth of John's breath pushing up against the lobe of Sherlock’s ear. It is slow and laboured and so very grounding as Sherlock slipped deeper and deeper in the fold of John's arms. Feeling weightless. As if he could breathe. As if he could fly. 

Lazily he opens his eyes to stare down into the cobalt blue pools of John's eyes. Gazing down at them with a idle look of wonder, a twitch of a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth as John blinks slowly up at him with a matching look of wonder. 

Together they are weightless. Caught in slow motion in a rushing tide of water. The current tugging at Sherlock’s shirt sleeves and catching at John's shoe laces. They look deeply at each other, stealing in small gasps of oxygen as the pressure around them builds and builds and builds. Crushing them. Compacting them. 

In a fraction of a second, John's eyes snatch a glance down at Sherlock’s lips and like a violin bow under too much strain it snaps and the current finally takes them. 

John lunges up to capture Sherlock’s lips with his own, groaning from the back of his throat as Sherlock reacts with enthusiasm. The taller man opens his mouth to allow John to push his tongue past the painted seam of Sherlock’s lips.

God, he tastes of cigarettes and stale smoke and of heaven and everything he ever hoped he would. 

John's hands slide up his body, pushing the tight fabric up higher to reveal the beautiful expanse of milky skin. 

“Bed” Sherlock gasps out a breath before returning to his assault upon John's lip, hands moving up to comb through the short, blonde hair before him. 

John moans in approval as he steadies a hand to Sherlock’s hip and gently pushes backward, blindly aiming for the bed that occupies the middle of the barren room. Holding Sherlock close. 

Not wanting to ever let him go. 

Never wanting to let him out of reach . 

Never wanting to let him fall.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone that wished me a happy birthday, it was awesome- Martin’s play was phenomenal (as expected) but he unfortunately didn’t come out to sign and take photos but the night was still amazing. And then I was given two surprise parties on my birthday by my pals at my riding yard and then later on by my friends by jumping out of the shadows in my creepy cabin in the woods and almost giving me a heart attack- so my 18th started off brilliantly.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The moment I’m sure we’ve all been waiting for.

Together they stumble back onto the soft cushion of the bed, limbs tangled around each other like relentless vines trying to cover as much skin as possible. Their lips remain locked as John lets his hand wander downward to shamelessly grasp at the fullness of Sherlock’s ass, basking in the satisfaction of finally being allowed to knead the perfect flesh. 

Sherlock breaks the kiss to throw his head back upon the pillow with a pleased moan, displaying the alabaster expanse of his throat, just begging for a bruising of the most passionate kind. His legs hook over John's hip in a helpless attempt at pulling them closer together, wanting to feel John's muscular body grinding down against his own like the crashing waves abusing the pebbled sea bed. 

John responds in kind, breathing a series of short ragged breaths as he bears down upon Sherlock’s writhing body and moaning with approval as Sherlock’s hands comb through his short blonde hair, tugging softly at every harsh drag of John's clothed erection against his own. 

“You have no idea-- jesus” John grunts as Sherlock slips a hand down between them to tug at the hem of John's jumper. 

“No, just me down here” Sherlock smirks and readjusts himself higher upon the bed, watching John sit up to pull the jumper over his head. 

“I was saying, you have” he peppers a kiss to sherlock’s cheek “no” his nose “idea” his brow “how much” his other cheek “i’ve wanted to do this” he smears another kiss across his plush lips. 

Sherlock accepts the endearment with a throaty moan as he parts his lips to grant the ex-soldier access into the warmth of his mouth, closing his eyes and giving himself up entirely to the taste of John's tongue as it brushes over his own. 

He tastes of tea and cinnamon and comfort and everything Sherlock hoped he would. Everything Sherlock yearned for. 

Calloused hands skim gently down his torso, popping buttons as they go, unveiling more and more unblemished skin as they head down toward the tight waistband of Sherlock’s trousers. 

“John-nnng--” he bellows as John roughly palms at the growing bulge in his pants, thumbing at the wet patch that is blossoming across the fabric. “Off! Take them off-- need-- oh fuck” 

“What do you need, love?” John pants as he pushes his hands up under the now open shirt, exploring the warmth of Sherlock’s skin, slick with a thin covering of sweat. 

“Need to touch you” he purrs as his hand shoots up to tug at John's belt buckle “all of you”

John nods in hushed approval, feeling exactly the same, and rushes to tug the waistband of Sherlock’s jeans down over his thighs, eliciting a series of short pants from the man below him who continued to fight with the extremely difficult belt buckle. 

“Fucking hell, how did you get these on?” John complains as he finally manages to tug the jeans past the mans narrow hips just as Sherlock grumbles something under his breath about a bloody belt buckle. His hands stall at the realisation that Sherlock isn’t wearing any pants when he is greeted with the naked expanse of cropped pubic hair trailing down to the flushed erection poking out from the lowered waistband. 

John takes a moment to look at the sight below him. Sherlock is hunched over, fighting with John's clothing as his shirt hangs open across his torso, showing off his lithe body and pebbled nipples along with the twitching bulge of his cock pushing against his jeans. He’s gorgeous. Absolutely stunning as his wild curls bob and sway with every shaky breath he takes, finally winning the battle with John's belt buckle. 

“Stop staring and get my clothes off” Sherlock grins with a wink as he moves onto pulling John's red pants down. 

“Hang on” he mutters, hurriedly pressing his lips to Sherlock’s before moving away, silently loving how Sherlock whimpers at the loss of contact as he goes to stand. 

With frantic movements he unzips his trousers to shuck the suddenly unbearably tight item of clothing from his blazing skin. Sherlock sprawls on the bed, drinking in the sight of Captain John Watson striping for him in the dingy glow of the electric light. 

“I’m not doing all the work, take your trousers off” John prompts as he pulls his shirt over his head, not feeling any shame at revealing his marred skin. 

“Is that an order?” Sherlock teases as he dips his hand down to rub at his aching hardness. 

“Don’t make me punish you for insubordination” warns John with a wink as he steps out of the trousers pooled around his ankles. 

“Lubricants in the top draw” he points to the bedside table before shoving his hands under the cramped space of his jeans, teasingly he reveals the blushed expanse of his cock to the other man and bites his lip at the sensuous relief upon his aching member. 

“God you’re unbelievable” John gasps as he snaps himself out of Sherlock’s teasing siren call to pull the draw open, not believing the array of bottles, toys and, for lack of a better word, torture devices that lay before him. They sit under his bewildered gaze, arranged in size order and colour and sensations they can offer and admittedly it’s a little bit daunting. Not that John hasn’t partaken in a bit of slap and tickle but the objects before him scream more of a punch and pain vibe. 

He grasps hold of the first bottle of lubricant he sees and shuts the draw, thinking it be best to go back to the interesting implements at a less rushed encounter. 

He turns to look at the bed and very nearly drops the bottle along with his jaw at the sight that waited for him upon the bed. 

Sherlock is stretched out like a goddamn feast with one arm propped up upon his naked hip with half- lidded eyes boring a blazing hole into John's soul. He’s naked as the day he was born, showing off the angular expanse of his long body, his erection pointing up towards his flat naval as it leaks a steady stream of precome from the swollen head.

“I’m waiting..” he lifts one brow and parts his legs slightly in a teasing gesture.

John cannot holdback any longer before pushing off the restricting item that is his red briefs from his hips and pounces back on the waiting body that greets him enthusiastically with an excited moan. Sherlock’s arms instantly wrap around John's neck to pull him down for a lengthy kiss as his knees are nudged apart by John's persistence to settle between the V of Sherlock’s hips. 

“God you’re stunning” John pants as he gently grasps Sherlock’s twitching prick, revelling in the shocked gasp that passes the other man’s lips “you’re not even real are you-- i’ve just knocked my head and i’m dreaming all of this, aren't i?”

“Nope, I'm really here” he hums in approval as John pumps at his cock with the foreign gentleness of intimacy “now shut up and fuck me”

The bottle of lubricant that John had discarded by his hip is nudged back into his calloused hand with rushed urgency. John reaches for the bottle but instead of taking it he grasps at Sherlock’s wrist and pulls it toward his lips to press a small kiss to his finger tips. 

“Patience, love” John hushes as he lets go of Sherlock’s wrist to reach back for the bottle, mentally grinning about how he’s going to rock Sherlock’s world in just a few minutes. 

Sherlock squirms on the mattress with a frustrated whine as John removes his hand from his wanton member with a skilled twist of his wrist upon the head before shuffling down a bit to have easier access to the hidden opening between his cheeks. The snick of the cap is loud in Sherlock’s ears as John squirts a large amount of lube onto his finger, filling him with suspense in the room brimming with laboured breathing and the rustle of bedsheets. John's hands are a grounding warmth against him as they travel downward to his furled orifice. 

He breathes deeply in time with the steady inhale--exhale of the doctor as he presses a slick digit against his opening. Slowly he drags his finger around the flesh, loosening the rim in preparation for their coupling before suddenly snapping his head up. 

“Emm..condom?” John asks, his finger still probing at the rim gingerly. 

“I’m clean John” Sherlock speaks to the ceiling as he shifts his hips to press against the doctor’s fingers. 

“I might not be” John quips and Sherlock lifts his head up from the pillow to inspect him quizzically with his dogmatic gaze. 

“Your last sexual encounter was a year ago in your army barracks which granted you a free STI screening in which you came out with a squeaky clean record and the fact that you’re grinning at me like that tells me that i’m absolutely right, so get to it” Sherlock beams as he rests his head back down onto the pillow, waiting for John to continue with his wonderful ministrations. 

“Cheeky” John scolds with a quick pinch to the plump flesh of Sherlock’s ass before slipping in his slick digit into the man’s tight heat, making him arch his back with a jolt of pleasure. 

“Oh” he gasps hotly as his hands twist into the cotton sheets. John drinks in the sight of Sherlock writhing below him with a flushed cock and a heaving chest, looking like something pulled from the most vivid of his adolescent dreams. His own cock twitches in lewd interest as arousal snakes its way down his spine. 

After a few moments of twisting one finger in and out of Sherlock’s entrance John adds another lubed digit to his hole to stretch him further. Quickly, he scissors his fingers within the loosened channel, searching for the small bundle of nerves that he knows will drive Sherlock insane. 

“John!” abruptly he jolts on the mattress with a breathy moan as John's skilled fingers finally brush over his prostate. John grins to himself as he places a steadying hand over Sherlocks hips to keep him still as he doubles down his actions to pull a series of pornographic level moans from the man as he squirms helplessly under John's unforgiving actions. 

“John! Fuck--John, i’m--i’m, oh John i’m going to--” John is quick to pull his fingers away from the sweet spot to bring Sherlock back from the edge. They both don’t want it to be over so soon. 

“That’s it” John coos with endearment as he reaches for the bottle of lubricant, the ache of his neglected cock finally making itself known as it twitches with wanton arousal “think we’re ready” 

“Fucking finally” Sherlock groans as he shifts his hips restlessly with the feeling of sudden emptiness “who knew doctors were so thorough” 

John grins at Sherlock’s breathless teasing, understanding his impatience but it’s always better to be safe than sorry. With a quick squirt of the brightly coloured bottle he slicks up his stiff member before tossing the bottle aside. Trying to hide the anticipation that wants to break free with every rapid beat of his heart. He positions himself over the lithe body of Sherlock and lines his member up to the gaping hole that awaits to accommodate him. 

“Ready?” breathlessly he stares, unblinking into the silvery gaze of Sherlock who beams back up him with a burning intensity as he nods in approval. 

Slowly he presses his hips forward, grunting incoherently as he pushes his cock head past the tight ring of muscle. They both breath forcefully out of their noses as John continues to steadily shoves into the wet heat. 

“Fuck--” Sherlock gasps as he arches his back to ease the building pressure of John's large cock stretching his rim. John is gorgeous above him. His brow is screwed up with concentration as he tries to ease his way in, reading Sherlock’s sensitive body language with fierce intensity to ensure both of them share a comfortable experience. 

It’s a nice change from the rushed preparation and quick shag that would leave him unsatisfied for his clients selfish pleasure. He smiles before reaching up to capture John's lips with his own. 

John melts into the contact with a sigh as if the tightness of his apprehension uncoils at the mere press of Sherlock’s lips against his own. He slows the push of his hips as he finally bottoms out, taking in a large breath of air through his nose with contentment. Sherlock runs a hand through his hair while nipping playfully at John's lower lip as he retracts his tongue from the warmth of the doctor’s mouth. 

“Mmm…” he hums while shifting his hips in small circles to accustom himself to the satisfaction of being filled so wondrously “you can move now” 

John grins as he plants his forearms either side of Sherlock’s head before drawing his hips back slowly. 

“--oh and John…” he leans up to rest his lips against the shell of his ear “don’t go easy on me” he smirks before nipping at the man’s earlobe, tugging lightly as he folds back down onto the cushions. 

“Wouldn’t dream of it” John winks and then slams his hips forward eliciting a strangled moan from the man beneath him. It spurs John on as he begins to thrust with every powerful stroke, gritting his teeth to quieten himself from saying all the things he wants to scream about how glorious Sherlock feels wrapped around his cock as he pounds into him. 

Sherlock however is not so guarded on the noises that pass his lips as he pumps his own hips back onto to the relentless push and pull of John's onslaught. 

“Fuck-- yes” John growls deeply at Sherlock’s skilled ministrations as he times his thrusts to perfectly fit that of John's and soon they are moving in tandem. A thin layer of sweat covers them both with the vigour of their efforts in the coldness of the dark room. 

John ducks his head down to pepper an array of kisses to Sherlock’s face, taking pride in the man’s face of utter bliss with scrunched up eyes and a parted lips spouting a litany of unintelligible grunts, moans and curses. His cock pulses hotly from where it is clenched in the vicelike squeeze of Sherlock’s passage at every small graze of his navel of the top of the other man’s prick. He’s close. He can feel it in the tight coiling at the base of his spine as his toes curl with the sweet sing of pleasure. But he’ll be damned if he chases his own release before Sherlock. 

Swiftly he removes his left arm from where is rests next to Sherlock’s head and snakes it between their writhing bodies to grasp at the throbbing member trapped under him. With quick, knowledgeable movements he pulls at Sherlock’s cock, squeezing and twisting with controlled actions to draw out even more of those delightful squeaks. 

“John!” he moans, throwing his head back to present the unmarked expanse of his pale neck while hoisting his leg over the hook of John's hip to better their position “OH! There! There!” his eyes fly open at the sudden burst of pleasure that sparks low in his abdomen. 

“Yeah...nnnngh-- oh fuck” John moans in agreement as he thrusts with renewed vigour. Tentatively he continues to tug at Sherlock’s weeping cock, using the copious amounts of precome as lubricant to help Sherlock slide through the tight ring of John's hand. 

“John--John! nnngh, fuck-- fuck John, i’m--i’m” Sherlock keens while pushing his hands through the short, soft cropping of John's hair, tugging lightly with every sharp jab at his prostate. A tightness coils at the base of his spine as he feels the telltale build of his orgasm rise within him with every thrust that blinds him with the assault upon his sensations. 

“That’s it--come on, Sherlock” he murmurs with adoration “come for me”

Sherlock makes a noise similar to a caterwaul as he goes completely lax in John's grip while releasing himself between their heaving bodies and simultaneously clench his passage down on John's turgid prick. 

“Oh fuck” John exclaims through gritted teeth as he gives one final thrust into the tight wet heat of Sherlock’s passage, letting go of his control and spilling himself deep inside the other man with a strangled moan. His body shakes with the blinding force that overcomes him in those few moments as they both lay there, breathing deeply in the silence of the room. 

“Jesus” Sherlock moans up at the ceiling with a lazy smile. 

“I think you’ll find it’s pronounced ‘John’” he grins cheekily as they both try to catch their breath. Sherlock just huffs a small breathless snit of laughter in John's direction “i’ll take the speechlessness as a complement” he comments before slowly pulling out, apologising at every small wince of pain that flashes over Sherlock’s face. 

“S’fine” the other man shrugs, it was simply an occupational nuisance that he has grown familiar with. 

“D’you need anything? Any soreness?” John asks as he rests over Sherlock’s prone body, awaiting instructions. 

“Maybe a wipe” Sherlock shrugs between breaths “and a cigarette”

John gives him a disapproving look.

“Please” 

“Where are they?” John asks as he moves to get up, smiling at Sherlock’s tiny gasp of joy. 

“Wipes in the draw, cigarettes in my dressing gown” Sherlock instructs, pointing to the bedside table and then over to the silk gown draped over the chair sitting in the corner, accompanied by his violin. John nods absentmindedly as he rummages around the open draw, pushing aside the varying bottles and toys to retrieve the packet of wipes that lay at the very back. 

“Here” he tosses the packet at Sherlock’s idle body, who catches it, before wandering over to the chair in search of the requested cigarettes. 

“Has anyone ever told you you that you blush wonderfully when you orgasm?” Sherlock mentions as he takes a wipe to his semen coated chest. 

“No, no one has ever told me I blush wonderfully when I orgasm” John replies as he fishes the cigs, and after a moment's thought, a lighter out of Sherlock’s pocket, not really sure how to react to such a comment. 

“Well it’s true” says Sherlock as he flicks the used wipes onto the floor and rearranges himself under the covers “that and you have a cute arse” 

“Hmm, I could say the same about yours” John muses while handing him the half empty packet of cigarettes and lighter before crawling across the covers, careful of Sherlock’s body lying beneath him. 

“I’ve heard it all before” the man grins with a cigarette trapped between his teeth as he coerces a flame to flicker into existence for the selfish need of his nicotine based desires “one man once blurted out my first and second name just by recognising my arse” he chucks the lighter onto the bedside table while inhaling his first drag. 

“How well did that go down?” John tucks himself under the covers, pointing away from the smoke Sherlock bouts at the ceiling. 

“He was an obnoxious arsehole from one of the bars I used to frequent and assumed I was up for grabs just because he knew me” he turns to face John, his the cig caught betwixt two fingers “so naturally I kicked him in the balls”. 

John can’t help but chuckle at the seemingly blasé tone for such an outrageous comment. Sherlock gifts hims a sincere smile before turning to place the burning cigarette between his lips, closing his eyes at the sweet tang of the pollution his lungs crave, holding it steady for a hesitant second before expelling it into the air like a grand plume of fogged dust that stalks the country’s land. 

“So you worked in other bars before this one?” it’s a shot in the dark but John feels the need to dig a little bit deeper in the cracks in Sherlock’s facade. The other man gives a small jolt as he suddenly chokes on his own soot ridden air. 

“John-” he coughs out “i’m sorry to say that a brilliant shag such as that will not get me to open up, well at least not emotionally” his hips shift uneasily to make his joke just that little bit clearer before returning to sucking on his embered cigarette. 

They lapse into a long stretch of silence as the link between them widens like a piece of plastic floating further and further away in the torrent of the fast flowing ocean. They are pushing each other away. Sheltering themselves alone in their own empty shells. Hiding in the darkness, cowering away form the sudden burst of emotion they just shared together in a sensuous dance of tangled limbs and hushed kisses. The strength of the waves crushing them into pained silence, demanding them to protect the sensitivities of their hearts. To bottle them away in the darkness and hold their tongues. 

“I was eight when my dad first punched me” John smashes his bottle, allowing the repressed horrors finally flare up in his mind, finally enabling him to breathe “he was drunk of course, always drunk” his lungs burn with the punch the words give. 

Sherlock remains quiet, simply letting the cigarette remain clamped in between his lips. 

“Mum usually had us up in bed by the time he came home” he stares unblinkingly up at ceiling “we would listen to her sob quietly to herself long after he’d pass out on the sofa, or the couch or the stairs, wherever he’d take his fancy really”

He can feel himself crying but can’t register when the first tear rolled, can’t figure out where the pressure became so suffocating as if he is drowning in tar, unable to find the surface. His heart hammers, out of fear or embarrassment he can’t tell.

Sherlock remains quiet. 

“When he died I didn’t know whether to weep with joy or scream with anger that I didn’t get a chance to strike the bastard back just to treasure the look of surprise on his face” his hands clench as the locked away emotion flies freely to the front of his mind. A bitter taste of rage builds up like a blackened bile in his throat, spurring on his ancient hatred. 

“How did he die?” Sherlock asks quietly, almost timidly to direct the path of John's memories, to guide his emotions like throwing a stone at a river to disturb the ripples. 

John heaves a dry snort of laughter. 

“He had gotten drunk months before by some traveling gypsies passing through, they made him a deal to take one of their thoroughbred stallions of their hands for a few days of free hospitality- to which he inebriatedly agreed to in the blink of an eye” he cracks a wild smile “he hadn’t even seen the bloody thing!” he turns to watch Sherlock stub out his cig into the wooden framework of the table.

“So the next day we wake up to the sounds of the stable hands trying to rope this absolute beast into submission, it was fucking wild, they couldn’t even get it to keep four feet on the ground for longer than ten seconds before it would go up again, screaming and kicking like the devil” John pauses “probably was, now that I think about it, pitch black coat with charcoal eyes and a silver stripe that ran right between its eyes...” he pauses minutely in thought. 

“A couple weeks go by and it does calm down but none of the boys would ride it ‘cause it nearly killed Tommy after it flung him off and fractured his skull, so it just became a stud and--” he breaks into an uncontrollable fit of hysterics, a grin stretching across his face as tears map out his skin “--and the fucking thing wouldn’t breed! It had every mare at its disposal and it couldn’t give a flying fuck!” 

Sherlock let’s go a slither of laughter, his eyes transfixed on the anger still clutching at John's fists, the joy in his smile and the pain in his eyes. He looked broken. Shattered with emotions that pulled him apart, threatening to destroy him, destroy his mind. But this is John Watson, killer and life giver. He has taken and given in the court of a battlefield, playing against the rules of fate and mingling on the affairs of countless bodies. He has seen the face of death and cheated him still, coming back to bare his scars of both body and mind. 

This is a mere straw that will not break the camel’s back. Not today. 

“So months pass and Silver blaze, it was a stupid name Harry picked, is just eating away at his money and one day he just snaps, he’s had enough and the primitive brain of his supplies him with the perfect plan” he trails off, looking up at the ceiling. A smile no longer graces his lips and a sadness clouds over him “no one knows how he got out by the cliffs but a couple lads found him the next day with a bashed in head and an empty gun” he lapses into a tight lipped silence. 

Sherlock wants to reach out and hold him, collect the broken pieces and put them together again. The caution of getting cut in the process is an after though but he stills himself regardless. 

John needs to do this by himself. 

“Mum cried at the funeral and Harry drowned herself in the booze” he turns onto his side, looking deeply into the reflection of Sherlock’s eyes “I joined the army the next day, packed up and left home before I could even hear what he bastard had left me in his will” 

“My parents died when I was eleven, my brother kicked me out at eighteen when I refused rehab, I lived on the streets for three years, throwing myself at any man that could feed my addiction until Irene found me overdosed in the gutter and offered my a home under an employment contract” Sherlock gasps out without a pause for breath, never taking his eyes off of the spectacle that is John Watson. The impossible man that shouldn’t be alive and definitely shouldn’t be here in bed with him. 

But fate wills it so. 

Instinctively they gravitate toward each other, finding solace in their arms as they silently stitch up gaping wounds. Falling asleep in the dimness of the room, listening to the slow uneasiness of the other’s breathing and the dreaming of what the sun rise may bring. 

\----

John is first to wake to the fitful mumbling of Sherlock as he buries his face closer to the epicentre of John's chest. He smiles sweetly at the unguarded expression of contentment on his face as he begins to wake, blinking with confusion back up at John as he wets the dryness of his lips. 

“Good morning” John croons softly, running his hand up to comb the unruly raven curls of Sherlock’s bed head. 

“I think that was the best sleep I’ve had in years” he replies, stretching like a languid cat settled amongst the heat of a sun beam. 

“Was that a complement?” 

“If you want it to be” Sherlock readjusts himself into a more comfortable position against the hardness of John's chest. 

A momentary pause lingers between them for an awkward second longer than necessary. 

“What do we do now?” John questions into the silence as if shouting out into the valley of a mountain, hoping for a reply. 

“Catch a murderer” Sherlock states with an ignorant smile. 

“No, I mean like right now” John shifts his shoulders to shake the lingering stiffness that hangs around them like a dead weight. 

“Whatever you want” Sherlock sits up to plant a chaste kiss to John's chapped lips “no charge” 

“Is that what this is then?” John pulls away with a pinched brow, confusion clouding over him as Sherlock’s face drops into something melancholy. 

“I hope not” he mutters, eyes deepening with an unnamed emotion that John can’t quite place. 

“what does that mean?”

“Stop thinking so much” his face regains its alluring mischievous glint as he swings a leg astride John's hips, his face leaning in close to ghost his nose over the ridge of John's. His breath is hot as it puffs over the other man’s lips and his eyes are casting an unbidden spell of listful entrapment. 

“So what would you have me do instead?” John muses, falling hook, line and sinker as he plants his hands on the man’s narrow waist. 

“Touch me” he gasps out, rocking forward against the awakening erection that presses against the inside of his thigh. John allows a small grin to grace his features as he slowly drags his hands upward, eliciting bitten off moans from between the other’s lips. 

“What else?” his thumbs flick over the hardening flesh of Sherlock’s nipples with unbridled pleasure. 

“Fuck me” Sherlock groans as he dips a hand down between, fingers tracing over the throbbing cock that he is grinding against, enjoying the power of also pulling a few short breaths from John's mouth. 

“And?” a hand pulls back to navigate the pale expanse of Sherlock’s back in search for his opening. 

Sherlock shudders above him with a growl of delight, willingly giving himself up to the powerful actions of John. 

“Love-” Sherlock’s request is bitten off as they both turn to look at the door. 

“Sherl!” Janine barges into the room, fully unprepared for the sight that greets her “--oh” she pauses at the foot of the bed, facial expression matching that of the startled men in the bed. 

“Janine” Sherlock is first to thaw out of his dazed, deer in headlights mentality “i’m busy” he growls, eyes motioning back to the man lying between his thighs.

“No time for that, it’s important” she is also quick to regain her train of thought, leaving john to stare in bewilderment at the people currently having a bloody conversation while his prick twitches feebly for Sherlock’s attention “get your panties on and hurry!” she chucks the discarded shirt at his head in an attempt to move him.

“What could be so important!” he grumbles, tone heavy with annoyance, watching her sharply as she dashes to collect up the strewn clothing. 

“Addison’s dead!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the late postage- it’s been a pretty hectic week, but I hope you enjoyed it! 💜💜


	12. Chapter 12

“What!” Sherlock leaps from his place in John's lap, shirt clutched to his chest as he hunts for his trousers that he had carelessly discarded in their passionate impatience. John is still reclined in the bed, using the duvet as cover for his flagging erection from the woman standing by the door. 

“Hurry up John!” the naked man growls as he flings the bright red briefs into John's face while trying to wrestle himself into the narrow channel of his trouser leg.

“Well excuse me for being a bit dazed” he retorts, finally giving up in remaining modest and sits up, bawling the pants in his fist.

“Where is she?” Sherlock ignores John's protests in favour of probing Janine for information as he hurriedly zips up his jeans. 

“The dining room” she replies, pointing her face away from where John is sheepishly putting on his own trousers while hunting for his shirt and jumper. 

“Come on John!” Sherlock groans impatiently as he begins to clothe his torso with the tight navy shirt.

“Yes, alright” John toes on his shoes, shirt wonky over his shoulders and jumper crumpled in his fists “lead the way”

Sherlock darts out of the door without a moment's hesitation, his shirt tails whipping behind him like the frantic flapping of a panicked bird as he makes his rushed exit. Janine is quick to follow, clipping in beside him like a shadow as her hair shifts like flowing water around her shoulders. John has barely gotten his shoe secured around his heel before he too is racing after them down the winding corridors and savouring the orchestra of adrenaline that ripples through him in crashing waves. 

Savouring the weightlessness of his chest. Feeling like he can fly. 

\-------

The dining room is swarming with police that congregate in small bumbling groups, awaiting orders and pretending to work. Standing proudly in the middle of the room is the large dining table and just above that hangs the pallid body of Addison, dressed in a pearly nightgown, drained of life as her dead eyes stare unseeingly at the grained woodwork. Her jaw is hanging open as she looms in the air like a gloomy centrepiece. Watching over them akin to a spectre at a feast. 

John dashes forward to the familiar face of DI Lestrade who is lingering at the head of the table, giving out short orders and trying hard to avoid staring at the slackened face of the dead woman. Sherlock takes a step forward to join him but feels an arm on his elbow, pulling him backwards into the seclusion of the shadows.

He snatches his head up to see (and accost his handler) only to be greeted with the grave expression of Janine’s hazel eyes. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks with a hinted huff of disgruntlement badly hidden in his words as he adjusts his shirt cuff. 

“Does Irene know?” her tone is uneasy as she searches his face pleadingly. 

“Know what?” 

“You and John” her eyes flicker over to where the doctor is talking to the tired inspector “does she know?”

“There is nothing to know” he snorts with disdain. 

“So you were just warming his todger in the name of friendship!” 

“Will you keep your voice down?” he bites back, side eyeing the nearest group of officers that look at them with suspicion. 

She bites her lip in pause, watching him regain his posture, sweeping back his hair and releasing a slow breath. 

“You sure you know what you’re doing, Sherl?” she asks quietly. Her eyes of sun filtered whiskey burning deeply into the contrast of his silver pools of crystallised ice. 

“Don’t I always?” he grins, completely hiding behind his confident mask constructed around him. 

Janine watches him closely for a moment with a pinched brow before nodding in agreement, letting him go.

“Go on… go play your little game” she mutters quietly before turning back to the elevator and removing herself from the overcrowded room.

Sherlock fixes her a weary glance as she disappears into the darkness, out of sight, before shaking himself of a rising uneasiness swimming laps in his stomach. What business was it of Irene’s to know who he chose to entertain? Why should he care for her input on the situation? Why should it be a big deal? It’s not as if he’s falling in love with the man!

His heart does a small skitter against his ribs just at the thought of it. Waking every morning to the sweetness of John's touch. To spend every moment basking in his adoration. Stealing kisses under the covers and whispering hushed declarations of love for one another--

No! Absolutely not! He is not thinking about such stupid things here, in the middle of an active crime scene!

He swallows down the overexcitement of his heart with a grimace similar to stubbing out the feeble glow of a cigarette with the heel of his shoe and soldiers on. 

Into battle. 

Greg is first to greet him with a tight grin accompanied with a curt nod. John then turns to him, offering a shy smile before flickering upward to the body suspended mere feet away. His expression drops as if he realises that he should be paying more respect to dead woman he knew briefly. 

“Morning” Greg grumbles while stifling an idle yawn “you look…” his eyes shift up to the tousled hair and smeared makeup “..well”

“No need for niceties Lestrade, give me whatever scraps you have to offer” Sherlock snips, totally ignoring John's weary glance. Maybe if he ignores him his heart will stop exploding every time he catches his eye.

“Right” Greg heaves a laboured sigh “she was found by Mrs Hudson this morning on her way to start up the stove, we left her up because I figured you’d want to have look but the note says suicide” 

“What note?” Sherlock perks up from his brooding posture to question the tired DI. 

“Here” he thrusts a clear plastic bag into his hands which contain a scrunched up piece of parchment with inky writing scrawled across it. Sherlock presses his face close to the bag to make the most of the chicken scratch. 

~ I am burdened by my sins and have now choose to weigh myself on the scales of judgement.  
Let god view my legacy and speak my verdict. Grandsons and grandsons will share my blood and bare my shame, know my story and fear my name ~

“Cut her down” Sherlock orders as he pulls away from the protected note. 

“As you like” the detective inspector says dryly as he motions for the awaiting officers to cut the silken rope biting into the girl neck. 

Sherlock steps aside to watch the uniformed men move in to hoist her down, their gloved hands somewhat hesitant to touch her cold flesh, but John is more than ready to help guide the woman down and lay her flat against the wooden table. Sherlock gives a small grimace. They’ll definitely have to burn it for the sake of sanitary conditions. 

But best leave that problem for a later date, he has a murder to catch. 

Medical training in full swing, John is quick to assess her body, checking the severity of her abuse. The other officers filter away like scattering rats, skulking into the outskirts of the room as Sherlock swans his way through them with his head held high. His face tired and hair mussed with shirt mis-buttoned but still looking untouchable. 

John doubles down on the task at hand to distract himself from the looming presence of Sherlock that stands over him. 

“She didn’t write this” Sherlock concludes nonchalantly, waving the bag around in Greg’s direction. 

“What?” Lestrade snaps his head up from the slack expression of the corpse to look at Sherlock appraisingly “why not?”

“Because she was suffocated” John remarks as he pulls back from the dead woman. 

“Very good John” an approving smile stretches across Sherlock’s face along with a small dusting of blush. The doctor nods shyly before subconsciously licking at his lip. 

“Of course she was suffocated she hung herself!” Greg isn’t impressed, snatching the evidence bag back from Sherlock as he rants. 

“No before that” the taller man reflects with an aloof wave of his hand “look at the bruising around her mouth, she was definitely choked into subconsciousness before being suspended up here”

Greg spends a moment to linger on the girls colourless body, studying the paleness of his expression to try and catch up to the bullet train that is Sherlock’s mind. 

“So why did he kill her? Nothing seems to be missing” he muses, eyes scanning busily down the expanse of her silken clad body. The pearly white of her gown is hiked up around her ankles and flows down past her wrists, covering up most of her spiritless frame. 

“She seems is not the same as she is” Sherlock stresses “cut off her nighty and do some detective work”. 

Greg nods a silent command to the gaggle of officers mulling around on the scuffed up floor. They slowly separate from the herd in search for something to cut the dead woman out of her garb like a bunch of babbling penguins venturing out into the world for the first time. It’s a pathetic spectacle. 

His foot taps with impatience as they wait for someone to find some fucking scissors in this god forsaken kitchen. The sound of them cluelessly rifling through drawers and upsetting cutlery is loud in Sherlock’s ears. John looks towards him with slight apprehension as the tapping of his shoe speeds up slightly and his face screws up just a little bit tighter with bubbling irritation. 

“I found--!” a young officer cheers, waving the scissors in triumph as they appear from the kitchen before their face abruptly drops at the sight of Sherlock’s exasperation “some…” 

They walk over like a subservient dog and hands John the scissors before skulking away, eyes low and tight lipped. John utters them a small thank you before turning back to the task at hand, releasing a small sigh when he hears the rushed tapping of Sherlock’s shoe become a slowed tempo resembling the dripping of rain from a broken drain pipe after a storm. 

Sherlock raises his eyes expectantly at the doctor, directing him to proceed. 

The scissors glide through the silken material as if slicing through air with every delicate snip John makes to the nightgown, careful of the skin that lay just below its flowing cloth. Inch by inch more of her body is revealed, showing her cold untouched golden skin that sits eerily still with the absence of life. Her ribs do not rise and fall. There is no flutter of eyelashes or echoes of laughter. Her hands do not move with the excited rush that they once did and her eyes are dead and dull like that of a fish that would have been on offer in the supermarkets before the crash in stocks.

A minuscule frown tugs at the corner of Sherlock’s mouth at the sight laying before him. Addison was his friend. His colleague. A wonderful woman who had brilliant taste in shoes. Nothing like the empty shell of a human that is laid out on the table, eyes clouded over with an expressionless mist as she is uncovered with the world to see. 

Sherlock scans over her body, her surprisingly unscathed body, in search for the tiniest clue as to why she was sacrificed in this brutal game. John keeps his eyes focused on Sherlock’s, watching the way he thinks, the way he calculates with such precision to see the things his own medically trained eyes couldn’t. 

The room is drained of all noise as sherlock furtively studies the corpse. His face slowly shifts from confusion to utter bewilderment as his thoughts crowd together by the dozen. 

She’s untouched. Perfectly unmarred. Completely intact. And it makes no sense. 

“This must be another distraction” Sherlock growls, still tracking his way across her body “there’s no other reason why she would be here unless it’s to--” he pauses unexpectedly as he reaches the crook of her elbow. 

Resting just over the top of a feint vein in a meagre puncture mark that was hastily wiped over to get rid of the paltry speckle of blood. His brows pinch in confusion before touching the tender skin. 

“So she was drugged as well?” Greg inquires as he watches Sherlock pull his finger away from the punctured flesh.

Sherlock ignores him in favour of looking up at the ceiling where the light fixture still swings gently from the strain of supporting Addison’s lifeless body. He stares intensely for a few stretched moments, lips parted and eyes sharp, seeing something that others simply aren't looking for.

“I have to go” he states blankly before turning around and marching towards the large set of elevator doors at the end of the room. 

“Sherlock! Where are you going?” John calls to him with a bewildered expression, trailing after him with hurried steps “Sherlock!” 

“Oi!” Greg calls to them as they disappear into the elevator without so much as a backwards glance. The DI snorts a frustrated huff as he shrugs his shoulders in defeat and turns back to the the awaiting officers to shout some orders. 

\-----------

Sherlock remains silent to John's questions as they walk together through the music-less hallways. The floor creaks and cracks under foot in the eerie quiet as they slink deeper and deeper into the house. The corridors are lifeless in the dim light as if the very energy that once pulled John to its centre is dying out, being smothered like a bug under the heel of a boot. Gloominess pours from the walls with a greasy ooze and taints the very air they breathe, clogging their lungs and starving their minds. 

They reach a large, silver framed door that sits ominously at the end of the darkened corridor. The doorknob is covered with about five generations worth of dust and spiders that once inhabited the free space before realising not even flies would frequent this part of the house. Sherlock doesn’t hesitate to grasp the once silver plated handle and jiggles it with force before barging at it with his shoulder. 

Dust flies in every direction as the door swings open under his weight, taking refuge in the curly wisps of Sherlock’s hair and catching in the back of John's throat. 

“What in the…” John winces as he waves away the invading particles while struggling to watch Sherlock slink away into the darkened room. 

Without a second though he is trailing after the silent man, stumbling in the darkness as he puts his hands out with caution, trying to adjust to the obscure murkiness and the shadows that plague him. 

“Sherlock” he calls which is met by echoing silence “Sherlock for fuck’s sake answer me” he treads further into the room, squinting to make out a looming figure that wades in the shadows. 

He steps towards it with arms outstretched in trepidation. Firmly he grasps hold of the slightly bulky figure. It feels stocky and cold under his grip as he squeezes the frame in his hands “Sherlock?” he questions hesitantly as he looks up to around where Sherlock’s face would be. 

That is when the lights come on and he comes face to face with the snarling expression of a grizzly bear. 

“Jesus--!” he jumps back in alarm, jostling the taxidermy animal as he moves. His heart palpitates uneasily as adrenaline spikes through him like a bullet “fucking hell” 

“I’m going to pretend that you didn’t just confuse me for a bear” Sherlock’s baritone voice carries across the room from where he stands next to the door, looking rather amused. 

“And I’m going to pretend that I didn’t just confuse you for a bear” John replies, scratching the back of his neck in embarrassment “so what is this place?” 

He looks around the admittedly cramped room filled with boxes and props and taxidermy animals and old furniture and a whole wall packed with books. Big books, small books, encyclopaedias and medical journals. 

“Not enough space in my portion of the bedroom so I bring all my books and other collectables down here” Sherlock explains as he pushes his way between two chairs to get to the shelves of accumulated books. Silently he grabs hold of a rolling library ladder fixed to the frame and slides it around to the centre of the bookcase and begins to climb. 

“You sure that’s safe?”John questions, cringing at the steps creaking under Sherlock’s weight, as he moves to grab hold of the skittering ladder. 

“Yes” Sherlock groans back as he climbs higher. 

The doctor rolls his eyes at the sheer carelessness in his voice as he blatantly ignores how the woodworm eaten steps dip under his weight. John looks up to watch what he so demandingly wants to find and is more pleased with the sight that he gets. 

He is standing right beneath the delicious sight of Sherlock’s ass in those tight jeans that were such a pain to get off the night before. The light cascades over the expanse of Sherlock’s back and rounds over the perfect globes of his buttocks as he stretches up for an out of reach book. It’s an incredible view, one that John would happily admire for the rest of his life if he could. 

But sadly his little session of self-indulgence is over when he gets an abrupt face full of dust and cobwebs. He sputters out a clogged breath and blinks against the invading grime. 

“Could have given me a warning” he mutters up at the seemingly ignorant man who continues to search the shelves around him. 

“It’s not my fault you were more focused on ogling my backside than your surroundings” he utters, climbing down a few steps “push me to the right” the man demands. 

And John obeys, grasping the scrolling ladder and pushing it across, straining a bit with the dead weight. His shoulder aches with the exertion but he soldiers on through the mere splinter of pain as he listens to Sherlock’s orders.

“More...more...more...more!...stop!” he commands abruptly to which John complies. 

Sherlock then reaches out for a small envelope wedged in between two overstocked volumes of chemical studies. Pensively he pulls the thin package out from its hiding place and reaches inside for a few slips of paper. His eyes lighting up as he scans the documents. 

“Irene also needs a place to stash her things” he chimes whilst climbing down the groaning steps. 

“What is it?” John asks, moving out of Sherlock’s way before crowding over his shoulder to get a good look at what he so desperately wanted. 

“Sir Thomas Brooke’s last will and testament” Sherlock waves the paper in John’s direction “and his family tree”

“Who’s he?” 

“The man who was great grandson to the builder of this house and the passer on to Irene” Sherlock notes while tracing down the many branches of the Brooke ancestry.

“You’re doing the face again” John groans as he hands back the will. 

“What face?” the other man questions as he pulls away from the documents under his scrutiny. 

“The ‘we both know what’s really going on here’ face” he explains while pointing an accusing finger at the features of Sherlock’s still frantically smudged face. 

“Well we do know” 

“No, I don’t which is why the ‘face’ is so annoying, just--” he breathes in a sigh while rubbing a hand over the bridge of his nose “just tell me why he’s so important”

Sherlock pauses for a moment just to study the mixed emotions playing across John’s expression, blinking slowly before readying himself to start once more on his rapid train of thought.

“The note wasn’t written by Addison, it was a taunt about how our murderer was wrong out of inheriting this house” he looks expectantly up at John, expecting a positive reaction.

“Nope, still don’t follow”

“Look, these updates show us that this one person was the intended inheritor of this house that is up until the last update where Irene was placed soul benefactor” he taps the dried ink of Irene’s signature “and if we look here on the family tree, one Richard Brooke is the last documented grandson of Sir Thomas” 

“Ok, yeah sure but why the grandson?” John asks as he follows Sherlocks finger down the page. 

“Because our dearly departed Addison was in a very troubled relation with an absolute arse who went by the name of Richard Brooke” Sherlock’s smile is so smug it’s beyond words as he faces John. 

“That’s fantastic” he beams “i’d have never-- the boyfriend, bloody hell” 

“Well he wasn’t so much of a boyfriend more of an obnoxious customer that liked her as well as anything else that had two legs” Sherlock teases with a quiet voice as he packed away the precious documents. 

“Well he likes murder too” 

“Loves murder” Sherlock counterclaims with a brash expression. 

He looks gorgeous. Absolutely stunning with tired eyes, smudged lipstick and dust in his hair. He looks like an angel, kind and open for only John to see as they stare at each other in the secluded patch of silence. 

John wants to kiss him. Right here, right now. Even with the bloody stuffed bear observing them from the corner. 

“So what happens now, Mr Holmes?” he asks, shamelessly flirting as he wets his top lip. 

“We wait for them to find it” Sherlock looks almost pained as he blinks, breaking the fragile moment between them. The case comes first. The case has to come first even if it breaks him to do it but he can change all that when its finished. 

They just need to hold on until then. 

“Wait for them to find what?” John interrogates, closing the distance between them with concern as Sherlock tries to build a wall back around him. 

From somewhere in the house, to the right? Left? Above or below echos a shrill chorus of terrified screams. The chilling sound travels straight through the walls and corridors eerily, barely muffled by the walls that block it like a spectre crying out for someone to hear how they were wronged by the living. 

John jumps back at the sound and looks to the door with panic. 

“That” Sherlock states “is what I was waiting for them to find”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again I have to express how wonderful everyone has been with reading my work and leaving such wonderful comments and kudos’. I really couldn’t have hoped for more so thank you all 💜


	13. Chapter 13

Blood is everywhere. Grisly, crimson, cold blood, painted across the entirety of one the corridors that trails into the stage room. It is splashed lazily over the walls and soaked into the carpet. Gory handprints circulate the wood in idle patterns as the spontaneous art display stretches out into the darkness of the dimly lit hallway. 

John and sherlock stand at the mouth of the corridor, taking in the gruesome sight with , matching expressions of disdain. To the side of them stands a group of women with sickly pale skin, coddled in orange blankets as a troop of officers try and soothe them from the shock. It doesn’t seem to be working however as the girls continue to stare out into the darkness of the room. Sherlock gives them a meaningless once over before striding out into the bloodied corridor. 

“Sherlock!” John gives a hushed exclamation as he follows the other man into the darkness, careful of the pools of blood that decorate the woven carpet beneath his feet. 

Sherlock is quick to pluck a lantern from the wall as he ventures further down the hall, a minuet smile tugging at his lips as he hears John catch up beside him. Together they creep down the passage, guided by the gas lanterns glow. The musky scent of decay is thick in the air. Seedy and heavy with fresh blood, fresh death. Every step in the murky darkness gifts them to another overpowering assault to their senses. John grimaces at the knowledge that he is no stranger to the crisp smell of a recent kill and how the tang of copper makes his hands tingle with shameful excitement. 

“What are we looking for?” John asks as he follows the light of Sherlock’s lamp which scans the blood smeared walls. 

“A sign” Sherlock informs as his eyes remain focused upon the lantern’s beam. 

“Like that?” 

Sherlock turns sharply to scout out what John had spotted in the darkness. To their left, fresh blood glints eerily in huge hand painted letters across the wooden walls. Sherlock flashes his lantern up against the gory message. 

“The souls of the wicked will be paid for in blood” Sherlock reads as he steps up close to the wall. John has little time to protest as Sherlock dips his finger into the gristly liquid that drips down the wood “it’s fresh” 

“What detail led you to that conclusion?” John scoffs at the obviousness statement. 

“No!” he scolds “it was very recently put here, more recent than the other marks, look at where it’s still slowly dripping downward because it hasn’t congealed in the air yet” 

“So our murderer-- Richard was just…” a cold shiver of dread trickles down John’s spine at the realisation that a bloodthirsty maniac was standing where they stand, just moments ago. 

“--Was just here, yes” Sherlock finishes John’s sentence, ignorant to the doctor’s sudden uneasiness.

There is a small lapse of silence between them as John swallows the panic that rises in his throat like molten bile and Sherlock continues to study the message while rubbing the sticky blood between thumb and forefinger. The sudden pressure of the gloomy atmosphere is crushing John as the bitter poison of fresh blood infiltrates his lungs. 

“Im hoping-- christ, i hope this is Addison’s blood” John chokes on the stale air. 

“Of course it is” Sherlock turns to John “he extracted it from her while she was subconscious”

“So that’s what the puncture mark was” John nods as the mystery unravels just that little bit more, exposing tight lipped secrets and hidden clues. 

“Addison hated needles, would never go near them even if it meant missing out on a free hit” Sherlock informs “so i know he would have to had taken something out rather than put something in, since he already had her under his grip and a means of death prepared, so extracting blood was the most sensible conclusion”

“So he attacked his girlfriend, knocked her out, drained her like a fucking vampire, strung her up and then decided to recreate starry night but with more apocalyptic undertones” John summarises.

“Exactly” 

\---

Lestrade gives them a weary glance as they reappear from the bloodied hallway, his brows are pinched and eyes stony, shrouded with the unmistakable emotion of pissed off. The detective marches over to them from across the room with a thunderous air of urgency behind every step. 

“What the hell are you doing? You can’t just parade around a crime scene that hasn’t even been secured--” Greg fumes as he gets within arms reach of the men. John subconsciously steps protectively closer to Sherlock, whom seems unfazed by the words being yelled in his direction.

“The blood is Addison’s, about fifty paces down the hallway to your left will be a message written is said blood and is extremely recent, between 25 to 40 minute old” Sherlock interrupts the DI’s rant with a bleak explanation of the crime scene “can we go now? I have other important things to do then stand around and wait for the bumbling brigade of officers to confirm what i have just told you” 

Greg regards him for a few moments, his tongue probing at his molars in thought, before nodding his approval and standing aside. 

“Thank you, George” Sherlock smirks at his magnificent talent of manipulation as he passes the unimpressed DI. 

“It’s Greg and you know it” Lestrade calls after him but is ignored as the men continue on their way. He huffs a sigh and turns to the pack of officers loitering by the mouth of the bloodied hall awaiting for his orders. Without hesitation he gets back to work, ignoring the growing mass of distraught women that are gathering in the stage room. 

“I’m sorry Irene but until this stops, I'm not staying here a minute more!” an emotional woman states as she hikes her overstuffed bag higher upon her shoulder. 

Sherlock and John turn their heads in tandem at the outcry to watch the spectacle unfold. A horde of around forty women are gathered together, sporting hastily packed bags and suitcases as they bombard Irene, who is slap bang in the middle of this protest, with their hysterical concerns. 

“Me neither!” another cries as the commotion of the angry mob raises like the crashing torrent of a sea amidst a storm. 

“It seems his plan is working” Sherlock mutters offhandedly as they veer toward the now thunderous gaggle of agitated women. They grumble and titter about the ludicrousness of the whole scenario as they drag their cramped bags behind them and out of the wonky front door, stepping into the dust ridden world, leaving a few remaining women to stand beside the crumpled Ladyship. 

Irene watches them disappear out into the world with an expression of broken heartedness. Her eyes are pained with the loss of her employees, her friends, her children as the door slams behind them, cutting them off from the enchanting lure of the house’s charm. With her head hung low she perches upon the edge of the stage and breathes a defeated sigh. 

“I’ve conducted the biggest blackmails in history of England, destroyed the reputation of the biggest bastards alive” she mutters brokenly “and now my legacy is crashing down around me in just three days!” her head slumps into her hands. 

“Well, i’m not leaving” the soothing voice of Kate cooes as she approaches the defeated Irene, petting her on the back as she sits beside her. Irene leans into the contact with a small whimper. 

“Me neither” Janine steps forward in support, followed by other stray women as they show their allegiance to their fallen leader. 

“Can’t ever imagine leaving this place, really” Molly adds, fiddling with her pinkie ring, stepping in amongst the group of ladies. 

“Its home!” Archie affirms as he comes to hug his aunt's legs where they dangle off the edge of the stage. Wiggins, amidst the crowd, nods in agreement. 

Sherlock moves to the front of the gathering, leaving John to linger with the others, to address Irene face to face, “You know better than anyone that i have nowhere else to go” his voice is sincere. She offers him a tight smile. “also, i can’t leave such a brilliant mystery unanswered”

A small chuckle is pulled from the group at the brash statement. 

“I’m here to stay too” declares John as he pushes himself to Sherlock’s side “i mean quitting after three days is rather shameful”

“We’re with you all the way” Kate declares with a wispy smile, squeezing at Irene’s shoulders affectionately.

The ladyship’s eyes light up with an ecstatic gleam, her head perks up from where it had sunk into the hands and a devious smile stretches across her blood red lips. The life seems to flow through her once more as she straightens her spine and takes back the confident posture that defines her, transforming her from a crumpled mess into an elegant viper of a woman. 

“You are all absolutely right!” she presses an energetic kiss to Kates cheek as she jumps down onto the floor “i’m not going to let a man control me — Control us!” she exclaims outward to the crowd of her admirers, eliciting a chorus of cheers to erupt “hundreds have tried and all have failed and he is just one of many that will join them!”

Within the mayhem of Irene’s illustrious speech and the crowd’s enthusiastic cheering, Sherlock’s hand seeks out John’s. The doctor glances up at Sherlock’s proud face to see him staring transfixed to Irene’s energetic movements. Smiling gently, John goes back to facing the Ladyship’s powerful sermon, allowing himself to take Sherlock’s hand in his. 

“Tonight we will have a feast! Right here on this stage and show this man that we will not cower under his fist! We will not lay down and take it! So girls-- all of you, all of my friends--” she scans the mob with a fiery intensity and Sherlock snatches his hand out from John’s tender grip “get dressed in your Sunday best and join me” 

A final chorus of applause roars from the small gathering of uplifted women as her speech draws to a triumphant end. Kate stands to take Irene’s hand as murmurs of approval ripple through the crowd, all of the ladies discussing what to wear and how to style their hair, pushing the looming threat of a killer that could be hiding in the walls into the back of their minds. 

“You should probably go with the girls” John notes, nodding his head over to the remaining women as they begin to grow together “to go get ready and everything”

“Then you should go with Wiggins and Archie, they will no doubt need a hand with beauty tips” Sherlock grins, motioning over to where Archie is dancing around Wiggins’ lithe frame with excitement. 

“Well at least someone is recognising my dress sense” he plucks at his woollen jumper “i mean corsets and tight jeans are great but jumpers are the height of societal collapse fashion” 

Sherlock stifles a deep chuckle behind his hand and John flashes him a cheeky grin. 

“Well i must say i prefer a man in uniform” the taller man quips, his expression smug as he watches John stall internally for a second. 

“I’ll be sure to keep that in mind when picking out my attire for this evening” he stands to attention, shoulders fixed back and eyes stony as he gauges Sherlock’s reaction for positive results. 

“I look forward to it, Captain” 

“In the meantime, soldier, you should go with the girls and get yourself spruced up” the shorter man wets his lip as he follows Sherlock’s eyes flicker over to Janine who is fast approaching. 

“I’ll be saving you the first dance”

“I’ve got two left feet”

“I guess i’ll have to teach you then” Sherlock pulls away minutely from John’s personal space as Janine crowds them. His body becomes closed off and sharp, less open, more defensive as his shields come up and the smile disappears behind a cold mask of dogmatic disdain. 

“Ya ready to go Sherl?” Janine questions cheerily, stepping between them slightly. 

He nods in affirmation and allows himself to be herded off towards the over girls that are waiting at the bottom of one of the grand staircases. The police officers are thinning out as the Scenes Of Crimes Officers finish up with their sweep of the hallway, carrying with them multiple bags of needless evidence samples as they leave. 

“Meet me at six?” John calls after him, seeking out his eyes within the sea of stunning women. 

“Bring your dancing shoes” Sherlock responds with a wide grin as he cranes his head up over the other ladies that pool around him. 

John beams smugly as he turns toward Archie who is still dancing eagerly around Wiggins’ feet. The boy yapping happily about having a feast, and dancing and will there be gingernuts? Hopefully Sherlock will bring gingernuts? And maybe Irene will let him have some of her wine, and Mrs Hudson could may a pavlova? Do you think she would? Archie thinks she would, hopefully and-

“Will ya shuttup! Ya givin’ me a headache” Wiggins snaps at the child. Archie instantly quietens as he draws into himself and mumbles a shy apology. Wiggins looks down upon the melancholy child with growing guilt that shadows over his expression “but i’m sure the Ladyship will let ya ‘ave a sip of the old Rosé”

“Really?” his eyes light up with familiar curiosity and joy at the scruffy man’s words.

“Just don’t let the doctor be seeing you” Wiggins adds with a weary glance aimed toward John as he looms closer to the bickering boys. 

“You won’t get liver poisoning from one sip” John informs “just don’t go getting drunk on us” 

Archie gives a brazen giggle of excitement in response before continuing on with his bombardment of frenzied questions at the men as they push on through the house, toward the cosy heart of the 221b baker suite.

\----

Perfection is key. 

Perfection is coverage. 

Perfection is improvement. Grace. Beauty. Elegance. 

Sherlock knows this. He has spent many nights perfecting a sharp vibrato upon his tired stradivarius, enslaving his hands into precise submission, demanding they remain commandingly still until his fingers bled. Abused his feet into submission and beat his body into compliance as he danced barefoot on splintered floors just to elicit lewd cheers of attention from his drunken fans, lovers, abusers. He has starved himself for beauty and gorged himself on poison for intelligence. He has broken his bones and veins and spirit for perfection. 

It is his coverage. His camouflage that protects him, numbs him from the poisoned words that are poured in his ears from faceless clients, from the cold lips pressed to his jugular by nameless admirers, from the hands of false lovers that bruise him under the mockery of love making. 

Perfection protects him but underneath he is cracked and mangled and shattered and fractured and everything that perfection isn’t. Everything that he despises. Everything that people that have belittled him for. Beat him for. 

Perfection is what they ask for. Demand. Crave. Yearn. What they come for. What they punch, kick, rape, kill for. 

Perfection is what Sherlock must provide. 

His eyeliner smudges into the crease of his eyelid as his fingers twitch traitorously. Perfection slips from his grasp. 

With an exasperated sigh he wipes away the ugly mark and starts again. His tongue pokes out slightly as he gazes intensely into the mirror, tracking the charcoal black line with his sea glass eyes and straining his lumbrical muscles to obey his demands for precisioned beauty. 

He is clothed in a white dress shirt with straining buttons and rolled up sleeves, covered by his midnight blue dressing gown that is draped over his shoulders like a celestial made of the fabric of the starry universe that hugs him tight. Offering comfort in the isolating chill of the dressing room. 

Behind the vanity screen the remaining girls are a flurry of voices and giggles as they pick out dresses and swap cosmetics. There is a low echoing of despair behind every burst of laughter or moment of excitement as they silently mourn the loss of their sisters and beloved Addison. 

Sherlock sits back triumphantly as he finishes with refining his eyes, gazing into the mirror to see a man that isn’t real. He sees a man with a painted face and crafted hair and a carved body. This man a facade, an entertainer, a elegant vision of beauty that lures men behind closed doors for cash and a few moments of attention. 

This is who they stumble after. This is who they unbuckle their belts and loosen their pockets for. This is who they see. 

Apart from John Watson. The doctor that patched him up the moment they met. Defended him, cared for him and helped him. The man who has fought in bastardised wars for the greedy and healed the souls of the innocent. The man who followed him into uncertainty and saw the beauty of his fractured mind. The man who called him brilliant. The man who made love to him tenderly and laid beside him as he slept. 

The man who was waiting for him downstairs. 

He loves John Watson. 

His heart flutters with a sickly sunken beat at the thought. He’s never loved anyone before, scratch that- he’s never really loved anything before. His family always held each other at an arm’s length with a stiff lip curled over at any sort of needless affection. He never loved cocaine, he just needed it as a crutch to filter out the dullness of the fucking world. Knowledge is a burden to his accursed life given to him by his cold brother that made it his mission to fill his head with faux advice of the world that laid before him. 

His fist curls as the bitter taste of poisoned memories that flood him. He inwardly curses his forsaken mind for dragging up such ugly scars of the past, swallowing down the sour memoirs. 

Tonight is a night to relax. Tonight is a night where he can bask in the warmth of John’s adoration as he strips himself of the facade. Tonight is a night where he can wear his emotions on his sleeve and present his bleeding heart to the man he loves. 

“Ya ready, Sherl?”Janine slides back the paper barrier of the vanity screen. She is clad in a silken lilac dress that falls down her figure like a tumbling waterfall, crafting the curves of her body as her hair remains hoisted in a tight bun decorated with a jewelled silver band. 

He looks away from the stranger watching him in the mirror to face her. Janine regards him with a curious smile as he turns back to the mirror, hands coming up to fiddle with the curls nested close to the tops of his ears. 

“Two minuets” he replies, probing at the wayward wisps of hair that refuse to conform into tight ringlets “you girls get going, i’ll be right behind” 

“You sure?” she questions. 

His eyes flicker towards her in the reflection of the mirror before returning back to perfecting his complexion and catching his eye on the violin that sits with ease in it’s velvet case. His lip curls into a cat-like grin as an idea pops into his head. 

“Definitely” he purrs from his seat. 

“Just be down quick” Janine stresses “there’s still a madman on the loose” 

“Oh please, as if he’d come out to play right now” Sherlock scoffs with a hand flickering through the cluster of raven curls that sweep his brow “he’s holed away somewhere like a rat, licking his wounds and trying to figure out his next move” he turns bodily in his chair to face her “i’ll be fine”

“Never any arguing with you, is there?” she rolls her eyes, beginning to turn back toward the group of dolled up women who wait by the door. 

“My mother figured that out soon after i learnt how to string a sentence together” he muses back at the exhausted woman. She offers him a kind smile as she departs his company, him responding in kind as she goes. 

The room becomes uncannily silent as they leave him to stew in the empty chamber. His eyes dart back to the awaiting violin that watches him from it’s idle dormancy, waiting for him to come closer and take it back into his arms. 

He stands, the gown slipping from his shoulders as he rises like a phoenix shaking the ashes of the past from his it’s feathers. It pools around the shined leather of his shoes as he steps forward to caress the worn figure of his dear devotion. 

“I’ve been neglecting you” he cooes, pulling it to his breast in a tender embrace, plucking the tight strings to ease it into a sweet lull of contented notes. The violin hums under the gentle flick of his fingertips as if grateful for a break from the relentless scratching of the horsehair bow against it’s tensioned strings.

Sherlock sighs as he feels the notes vibrate into his very core, resonating with the beat of his bleeding heart and singing him a tender ballad of his the emotions that pulsate through him. He plucks and picks at the instruments, readying himself to perform in a way he had hidden from the seedy energy that fattened the house like a gorged pig. This is his heart, guarded with tense strings and elegant curves, hollow but filled with invisible beauty. 

An intrusive knock upon the chamber door pulls him from the ensnaring lull of his heart’s song. He jolts back with surprise before sneering over his shoulder at the interruption, his hands putting the mournful instrument back into its case as he decides to investigate. His hands ball into a fist on instinct while approaching with slight hesitation. 

Sharply he swings the door open to the sight of a short officer staring back him. The uniformed man regards him with an unsure smile, hazel eyes dart around Sherlock’s face in a timid act of respect. His helmet is large on his head, swamping the curve of his brow and the rich brown of his oiled hair as the strap of the hat rubs against his stubble. 

Gay. Aroused. Intimidated.

Sherlock loosens the tension of his fists but composes his shoulders to remain the upper hand. 

“Yes?” he curves a brow in false irritation, deciding to play a bit with the idiotic creature. 

“Beggin’ your pardon, Mr Holmes” he shuffles his feet and looks at the ground “but the detective inspector wanted you to see this document found this morning” the officer fishes a small cloth parchment from his pocket, presenting it to the other man. 

Sherlock snatches the cloth from the little constable and scans it with his piercing gaze. His brain on hyperdrive as he looks into all the little mistakes made in the stitch work and rolls the threaded edges between finger and thumb. 

Its blank. But wet. Why wet? 

In a quick slip of thinking he is pressing the document to his nostrils and inhaling the sickly sweet scent of the cloth before closing his eyes with disappointment. Not only in himself but his oh so precious advisory that is beaming at him from behind the large helmet. 

“Dull” Sherlock spits as his vision blurs and his head feels weightless. 

The cloth falls from his grip as he staggers backwards, pure instinct willing him to watch as the predator stalks him like a spider trailing a trapped fly. He stumbles back onto the mattress of a bed, his body collapsing and head swimming as he watches Richard move closer. 

“Are we ready to reach the end of our little fairytale?” his rough tone whispers as he leans over Sherlock’s limp form, one hand reaching up to grip his struggling wrist as he chokes on his own saliva. He feels weak and feeble as panic sets in. 

“Well, are we, Sherlock?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay, I’ve had an absolute mountain of course work to swim through but there you go, I hope you enjoyed it! 💜💜💜


	14. Chapter 14

He looks a bit of loner really. Sat on his own, picking at his fingernails as he watches the girls dance loosely, trying to shake the gloom from their minds with alcohol and music. The stage is a flurry of flailing bodies skimpily covered from head to toe with colourful fabrics that come to life with the movement of the ladies, thrashing and whipping in time to the pulsing music. They giggle and scream the lyrics as they twirl and spin, liquor clumsily spilling down their fronts without a care. 

In amongst the crowd of sympathetic happiness is Archie. He is caught within the eye of the dancing storm, a huge grin spread across his face as he moves hand in hand with the cheerful women and their vibrant dresses. Chocolate curls bounce in the artificial light, blending in with the immaculate braids and plaits of the lady’s gold and auburn hair. 

Even Wiggins tries his hand at showing off some moves on the outskirts of the delighted mass of dancers, turning the heads of a few girls as they watch him. John smiles fondly, observing the almost-adolescent behaviour of these adults as if they were at a school dance. Fond memories spark to the forefront of his mind, reminding him of his rocky start into becoming title holder of John ‘Three Continents’ Watson as he stood awkwardly trying to impress Victoria Davies at the school dance. 

He really feels like a loner. 

Impatiently his fingers drum against the table, glancing up at the clock with nerves beginning to wear thin at how long Sherlock is taking. The clock reads ten minutes past six. Sherlock said he’d be down at quarter past. He’s still got time. He’s safe. 

Uncertainty settles in his chest like a molten pool that burns his lungs and singes at his heart. He continues to drum his fingers against the table, watching the others dance as a distraction to the dread that lurks darkly in the back of his mind. Constantly reassuring himself that Sherlock is fine. He is safe.

\----

The first thing he registers is that he can’t breathe. 

A coiled grip is biting into the tender flesh of his jugular, blocking his airways and triggering the animal instinct of panic. 

He chokes and sputters with the incessant need for oxygen as his eyes sharpen to his dark surroundings. Fruitlessly, he attempts to bring up his arms to relieve the pressure to his windpipe but quickly finds them clasped behind his back in a tight bind. 

Saliva and bile pools in Sherlock’s mouth as he tries to get his alarmed mind back in check. He needs to think. He needs to stop this pointless display of consternation and focus. 

Darkness.. Alone?... choking but still alive… hands tied but standing. STANDING. 

He curses his oxygen starved brain for being so slow as he pushes himself upward upon his tiptoes. The sudden intake of air very nearly knocks him out again as he savours the ability to swallow down the thick bile that had accumulated to the back of his throat. 

“I do love to watch people wake up and not know where they are” a deep, brooding accent states from somewhere in the dark “the fear in their eyes is always so honest” 

Sherlock struggles in his bonds to look toward the shadowed psychopath, his tiptoes slipping minutely on the wooden floor and grimacing at the pressure slowly pushing upon his neck once more. 

“Oh no darling, don’t struggle--” the man steps out from the shadows, reaching a hand out to stroke down Sherlock’s face “we wouldn’t want to end this too quickly, would we?” 

Sherlock follows the man’s gaze down to the floor to see where they actually are. They are both standing upon a narrow gangway plank way up above the stage which is a buzz with the oblivious merriment of his coworkers. Frantically he scans the crowd to see John sitting by himself, observing the dance floor and frequently checking his watch.

Sherlock’s mind settles over with an eerie calm at the knowledge of John’s safety. At least he can focus entirely on beating his opponent once and for all- even with his hands tied behind his back. 

“Richard Brooke, i presume?” cooly Sherlock replies, swinging his gaze up to meet the gleeful expression of his captor. Careful of course, to keep the pressure of noose he now identifies as being coiled snugly under his jugular as loose as possible. 

“I once went by that title” the man picks at his jagged fingernails, bitten close to the flesh of his fingers with the heaviness of boredom “but i no longer go by the name of a dough eyed fool” 

“Then what should i call you? If we are on a first name basis, so to speak” 

The man’s mouth twists into a devilish grin, eyes squinting and crooked teeth bared. Fear spikes into Sherlock’s bloodstream as the nagging thought of this man turning into some ungodly beast of hellish design should take shape from the strangers crooked expression. He does well to mask this inner panic, watching the man with hooded eyes, severely unimpressed. 

“Oh Sherlock, you can call me James, James Moriarty” a hand is extended in greeting “oh i’m forgetting-” the hand is withdrawn “-you’re tied up!”

Moriarty emits a high pitched litany of giggles at his own joke. Expression turning gnarled with hysterics as he wheezes and coughs out the last dregs of breath. 

“Why have you done this James?”

The laughter immediately quietens as the crazed man snaps his attention back upon his captive. 

“Revenge” the words are spat in Sherlock’s face as he draws close, lion-like.

“People have died” Sherlock retorts, defiance cutting sharply through his words. 

“That’s what people DO!” Moriarty roars a scornful cry with eyes darkened over and brow pinched. 

Sherlock chances a quick glance down to the party below, hoping that someone would hear the madman’s outburst and come to his aid. His blue eyes lingering on the inattentive form of John as he once again looks at his watch with unease. 

“Oh don’t worry, they can’t hear us, the music is too loud so we can chat for as long as we want” James states, pulling Sherlock’s attention from the army man below. 

“Chat about what?” 

Moriarty leans in close, his expression softening and lips curling over like a hyena that has got a weakened animal caught in its sights. Slowly, he paces forward and backward across the narrow walkway with ease. Predatory gaze forever pinned to Sherlock’s face. 

“I’ll do the courtesy of explaining the last little puzzle pieces, since you’ve come so close” he purrs.

“Thank you”

“I didn’t mean it as a compliment”

“Yes, you did”

“Yeah, Okay i did” he shrugs with a playfully sharp grin. 

He steps closer. Far too close. 

“I’ve been watching you, Sherlock Holmes, studying you, admiring you…” slowly , he invades Sherlock’s personal space, pressing his nose under the captives ear and takes a deep inhale. Sherlock grimaces at the heated breath against his neck but refuses to be cowed by the encroachment. 

He is rewarded by a resounding slap to his perfected face. Pain crackles across his cheek like a lightning strike brushing across the sky. Tears threaten to spill as they brim at his eyes. Sheer stubbornness wills them to stay put. 

“Don’t pout Sherlock, it makes a very unattractive face” Jim scolds, running a soft hand over the red blotch of Sherlock’s cheek. His pout turns to a cold sneer as he glares down at the killer before him. 

“What part do i play in this?” his brow pinches- playing for time. 

“Oh this is a game, a clever game” the words are stressed through clenched teeth as the soft touch turns to a bruising pinch “and you were a very good opponent but-” Jim relinquishes his grip “- you lost”

“You cheated” Sherlock retorts, unfazed by the rough treatment. 

“Now, now, don’t be a sore loser and listen to my genius” he preens “you, my sweet, are going to make quite an entrance to the little soiree down below with the help of this noose i’ve lovingly made for you-” he pauses for a moment to tug the rope wrapped around the pale expanse of Sherlock’s neck. 

“The weight of your miserable life will cause the hairline trigger attached to the noose to spring open and unlock my prize, which i will happily snatch while the good doctor and all the kingsmen try to put you together again” the man hums a Cheshire Cat-like smile as he takes pride in his own diabolical plans. 

“But this isn’t about the prize is it? This is about revenge? But revenge from who?” Sherlock introspects, scanning the man’s bared face as he manages to wedge a ring from his finger. Wishing it finally arouses the attention of someone below, he drops it. “Im guessing Addison was just a means to an end”

Jim flashes him a wide grin with lidded eyes, leaning back a fraction, doing a perfect impression of a viper preparing to strike. 

“Oh Addison was such a good girl, so eager and willing- in every sense of the word” smugness laces his words as he eyes the victim in his grip “but like any dumb bitch, she started asking too many questions…”

“So you killed her”

“Well she was going to die anyway- i just made her meagre life worth something, like i will do for yours” a sinister light glints in the the dark browns of the murderers eyes until his gaze hardens “now stop distracting me” 

Sherlock gets a light tap to his bicep. Almost flirtatious in the way he drags his fingers across the expanse of his chilled skin. It really is freezing up here. 

“Where were we?” the villain taps his cheek, mocking the illusion of deep thought “ah yes, why! Why have i turned this shit hole upside down? Well that’s simple my sweet…” his voice turns sickly sweet as his face twists into a deceivingly kind expression. 

“It was that bitch Irene that started all of this!” the mask of calm shatters to ooze out animalistic rage “my entire life, my grandfather promised me this house, let me wander its halls, discover its secrets, study its bodies…” 

Sherlock grimaces at the sadistic smile that graces the other man’s lips. 

“I grew up on his riddles and promises of legacy that hides in these very walls! It was mine! Mine to own and tear apart but then this cunt walks in and seduces the bastard! She comes in and acts like a common bitch on a leash- wrapping him around her manicured finger” 

Sherlock watches Jim take a slow breath. His feet are aching from how long he has remained elevated on his tiptoes to keep the grip of the noose from choking him once more. The pain written across his face however works perfectly to mask the difficulty he is experiencing as his hands work tirelessly to loosen the binds that shackle him. 

Jim is so caught up in his own monologue to even notice. 

“I couldn't stand it, so i left for another life abroad only to return home months ago to find him cold in his grave!” Moriarty shrieks like an enraged harpy, brown eyes glinting with a threatening darkness. 

Sherlock finally manages to grasp hold of the key loop in the knot that binds him to the spot. 

\----

 

He’s not sure what but something has just landed in his glass. 

John looks down at the drink in his hand and the small dibbles of beer currently rolling down his fingers as the foreign object settles at the the bottom of the pint. Bemusement clouds over his features, slightly inebriated thought processes taking over as he fishes his fingers into the golden liquid and pulls the object out. 

It’s a ring. A slender, golden signet ring that glints in the bright light. 

Instinct forces him to look up toward the crowd, searching for any sign of someone looking for their jewellery. But the girls keep dancing with no hint of distress toward missing rings. 

John goes back to inspecting the ring within his grasp, looking deeply a the neat inscription of ‘SH’ carved into the flat surface of the metal. Fear stabs through him like a railroad spike to the brain, with heart beat racing and mouth going dry as he sobers up instantly. 

Sheer gut instinct directs him to look directly upward into the darkness. He can see nothing but nagging suspicion awakens the adrenaline seeking soldier that lurks in the shadows of his nightmares.

With gritted teeth he stands, readying himself for battle. 

\---

“And do you know what he left me? What that old ball bag on legs left me?!” Moriarty gives one solid bark of laughter “the bloody riddle to find the first clue! Can you believe that! I get robbed from what is rightfully mine but at least i wasn’t forgotten!” he bursts into a fit of hysterics. 

Sherlock, now completely free of the rope binding him- but still keeping hold of it to keep the illusion of helplessness alive- releases a smug snort of laughter . 

“Seems like he had a sense of humour”

“Oh he did, thats why he would torture the rats with me as a child” Jim hums fondly, eyes glazing over with hunger. Slyly, the man creeps closer, crowding Sherlock over toward the edge of the walk way until he’s teetering on the border of safety and a broken neck. “Out of all my victims, you’re the most beautiful in intellect and physicality” slender hands plant themselves upon Sherlock’s chest “i can see why the little doctor admires you so”

Moriarty runs his hand upward, burying his fingers deep into the thick raven curls of Sherlock’s hair before gripping tightly. Sherlock grunts in pain as he is forced to bend his face downward.  
“I think maybe a kiss to seal the deal is a fair end to this little game, before i make you part of my masterpiece” Jim whispers almost intimately. His expression soft and eyes hollow as he leans upward, seeking the comfort of Sherlock’s lips. 

“Stop right there!” John shouts, bursting out onto the narrow walkway, in the nick of time. His arm is steady where it brandishes the impressive bulk of his gun and his body drawn like a furtive predator, lip curled and glare deadly. 

“Let him go, or I will kill you” John growls, showing no hint of emotion apart from calculated rage. 

Jim makes the crucial mistake of snapping his head over to the intruder, allowing his attention to falter. Sherlock is quick to lash out, grabbing his noose and throwing it at the murders face before pushing him backwards. Moriarty fails at the sudden assault, striking out to regain balance but instead knocks a fist against Sherlock’s chest- unbalancing him. 

Sherlock wobbles, his arms flailing and feet fumbling. Within a fraction of a second he flashes a worried glance up at John. His eyes are wide and mouth agape as fear clouds over his expression as he falls. 

John watches him disappear from sight. The alarm in Sherlock’s face still imprinted into the walls of his mind. He stares at the now vacant spot just beyond his reach with horror plastered across his features. Down below a chorus of blood curdling screams are set into action, never ceasing for breath as they screech with horror. But John can’t hear anything accept the pounding of blood in his ears as the world slows. 

Silence extends its icy tendrils around him. Snaking up his spine and chilling him to the core. He isn’t sure what compels him to start walking but he feels himself ambling forward on unsteady legs. An evil voice muttering dark urges to jump whispers in his ear as he nears the edge of the sheer drop. 

He looks down to the right- trying to ignore seeing Sherlock splattered upon the stage for as long as possible- spying the dangling corpse of Jim that swings eerily above the wailing women below. A twisted smile still plastered across his face as his neck distends in a sickly unnatural angle. 

John’s stomach flips at the sight of the gory scene. Grief however spoils the victory over finally defeating the murderous plague over the house. 

Johns feet shuffle to the very edge of the plank. He pushes out a final breath as his mind clouds over with unmeasurable pain. The toes of his shoes teeter over the verge, his eyes screw shut and bite his lip and curls his fists and-

“Can somebody help me down!” Sherlock yells from below. 

An unnamed joy swells in John’s chest. He turns to look upon the other edge of the walkway plank to try and sooth his aching sole. 

Swaying raucously by the ankle just above the horrified crowd is a very angry Sherlock Holmes, hurling insults to the women below as they just watch him try to untie himself from the loop of rope his ankle had been caught in as he and his advisory fell. John barks out a tearful laugh as the blood in his body unfreezes. Without a moment's hesitation, he allows the adrenaline to carry him back down to the stage below and help his madman down. 

Completely oblivious to the extravagant sun that hangs over head, which has opened up to reveal a treasure trove brandishing jewels and riches that could challenge that of the horde in London tower.

\---

“Geoff, stop fussing i’m fine!” Sherlock whines as Greg tries to check over his swollen ankle for the sixth time- always being met with Sherlock’s rebuffs. 

He is stretched out upon the wooden floor, his injured leg extended out and his attitude rotten and John wouldn’t want him any other way. 

Hurriedly, he makes his way down the last couple steps feeling almost weightless with the rush of adrenaline. Just hanging above Sherlock, looking down upon the scattered crowd, is Jim. The villain's face pallid and unmoving as he sways gently like a Christmas bauble suspended from a fir tree branch though not distilling the christmasy emotions of joy that would come with such decoration. More of a crushing relief pushing the first clear breath from his lungs ever since he stepped foot into this nightmare of a house. 

“Sherlock i’ve told you-” 

“Oh shush Graham”

“Its Greg!”

John sets his gaze back onto his fallen love, taking in the way the pink and blue hues of the spotlight glisten against his raven curls from where he lays reclined against someone’s coat- refusing to take a startlingly bright orange blanket from the detective inspector. An unnamed hunger strikes deep in the core of his heart, eyes roving over Sherlock’s beauty. Their perfections and imperfections laid bare as their eyes meet from across the rooms. 

The air fizzles around them like walking through the quaking explosion of a firework. The atmosphere thick and heavy as it all fades away, John focusing on nothing but the comfort of Sherlock’s gaze as he tracks John’s steps. Waiting for him to take him up in his arms and care for him. To hold him and strip him of his burdens. To take him far away, to take him to a place where they can heal each other's scars and wipe clean the anger in their souls. 

The need to heal and be healed amplifies within John’s body with every step. His mouth growing dry and limbs becoming heavier as he reaches Sherlock, as if he is the epicentre of all of things John holds most dear. Everything he loves. 

As soon as he comes close enough to be within arms width of Sherlock he collapses to the floor. Hands seeking out warm skin. Clutching the other man’s jaw and drawing him in close. Mouths meeting mouths as they find comfort, releasing high strung tension with closed eyes and short breaths. Sherlock’s soft lips moving against his own, elegant hands reaching out for John’s loving touch, feeling broken pieces finally click into place as battered hearts beat in longing tandem. For the first time in his life he has managed to firmly grasp the burning heat of perfection, searing through his blood and scorching the demons of his past, it’s heavyweight crashing down upon them like the shine of a thousand spotlights as they clumsily find each other upon the unpolished floorboards. Not caring about the multiple pairs of eyes watching- nor the fact that they’ve just sort of killed a man. 

Well he wasn’t a very nice man. 

John pulls away after savouring the sweet press of Sherlock against him. Their souls still screaming in agony to be rejoined like the mournful song of separated love birds. 

“Please tell me this is real” John whispers a desperate plea, completely oblivious to the people watching them, focusing only on the intimate way Sherlock’s face lights up in unexpected delight. 

“It’s real” Sherlock whispers back, unable to stop the smile that graces his lips as John presses their foreheads together. The urge to giggle with unbridled happiness rises up his throat as his smile widens with the ridiculousness of the situation “We can’t laugh, it’s a crime scene”

A bubble of laughter rips from John, biting his lip to suppress it. They look like two moony eyed teenagers, desperately grasping for each other on the floor, uncaring of those around them, feeling nothing but love. Pure, amazing, bloody terrifying love as it takes over. Consuming them in its entirety, beating them down into their most defenceless and ugly forms. Ripping apart their false images and laying bare their bleeding hearts and their-

“John” Sherlock interrupts “...my leg”

“Oh shit- yeah, sorry” John mutters an apology, the raging current of emotions disturbed as he moves his eyes down to Sherlock’s swollen ankle, mottled with multiple angry bruises. 

Healing hands rove down the length of Sherlock’s calve, tender in their touch as they press skin and inspect bone. Soothing words are given as sore spots are hit and loving strokes lavished to delicate patches. 

“It’s broken” John reports- Sherlock gives an huff at the obviousness- “most probably a fracture that will need binding and months of rest”

“Rest?” Irene repeats, a little skeptical. 

“Oh you needn’t worry about me missing work Irene” Sherlock turns to her “I quit”

The girls that had remained during the whole situation rather than retiring to their rooms all give mixed gasps of surprise and whoops of praise at his boldness. 

“You quit?” John asks, mirroring Irene’s skepticism, perhaps with a little bit of badly hidden joy “where will you go?”

“We will go anywhere” Sherlock corrects. The breathless grin of exasperation shining bold upon John’s face the the most perfect ray of golden sunshine he’s ever had the privilege to bask under. 

“Together”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOOP WOOP! Hope you’ve all enjoyed this little journey, it has been insanely fun to write and insanely fun to present to y’all and listen to you’re beautiful words of endearment and encouragement. There is still one little chapter left in store for our dear boys to see where they go in this storyline. 💜💜💜💜


	15. Chapter 15

The air is fresh. It is clear and crisp and refreshing with the heavenly coolness of the sea spray carried upon the breeze with every new dawn. Everything is fresh since the House Of The Rising Sun. Everything, jubilant and lively, especially to John Watson. 

He saunters out to the patio with an expression of beaming contentment as his lungs fill with yet another carefree breath of ocean air. No longer mourning the bittersweet taste of life saving adrenaline as he steps out into the sunlight, blue eyes seeking out the silver gaze of his husband. 

The atmosphere hangs unobtrusively around him now as he watches Sherlock peer up over his hefty encyclopaedia, meeting his gaze. To him, he is a hero, a man who stood by his side and battled an invisible enemy that hunted them like a wolf among sheep. Sherlock sees him as a partner. A lover. A friend. 

He settles down in his own chair, spotlighted by the sun, facing the raven haired beauty. The grass is luscious and green as it cushions his shoe clad feet and birds sing to each other a song of admiration across the crash of the distant waves. Sherlock sets the book aside, expression pinching as the movement jostles his bandaged foot, currently resting upon the glass coffee table. 

“You alright, love?” John asks with tender concern. Their matching rings glinting in the unfiltered sunlight like a bright glow of undying embers. 

“I’m perfect” he offers a soft smile in return, “although I’ll be even better when this bloody ankle heals- i want to finish constructing the bee hives” 

A strong gust of wind combs it’s salty fingers through his inky curls, much like how John does every morning to wake him, bringing a brisk redness to his cheeks with the sharpness of the cool breeze. 

“I know you do Love, but it needs to rest- doctor’s orders” he winks. 

Over the wheat coated fields, a horse whinnies a cautionary tale to whoever will listen, echoing as a ghostly wail across the plains and rippling waves. Sherlock listens to it fondly as John raises his head to try and scout out the source of the mares plight. It was by sheer luck and a minimum of brotherly respect on Harry’s part to allow John his part of their father’s measly will. John was granted the rundown property and a handful of promising thoroughbreds if Harry could be granted a hefty portion of its income. 

So this is where they now reside, sunning themselves in the shadowed cottage of John’s past, poking at the embers of life that were doused with bruised knuckles and alcoholic venom to raise it back into a nurtured glow of love and peace. The haunted walls can finally rest under a new coat of paint and the furniture can relax under the kind touch of the serenity that flows through the creaking doors as new life floods the upholstery. Flushing out the demons that lurk behind holes punched in the walls and broken glass hiding between the floorboards.

The nights are lit with warm candle light, accompanied by the soft croon of a contented violin. It sings a mournful song of pain and torture and loss to demons in the deep dark that snatch away breath from ones very lungs. It screams a tale of sharp needles and flying fists and un-wiped tears as unwanted hands battle their way under ripped clothes, scratching and biting and taking the soul of someone so helpless to the current of intoxication. Then the music dies. It falls and falls and falls into a sorrowful diminuendo as fingers ache, struggling to perform under the push of such unrelenting forces. 

But the story is not yet complete. 

Once again trembling fingers go back to skimming across the tense strings, notes screaming a tune of salvation through a rising crescendo like a drowning survivor racing against the clutches of the deep sea darkness, desperate to find the safety of their ship. It belts out a story of a strangers soft touch and tender care, pulling them from the murky water and pushing the life back into their damaged soul. 

In the nights two bodies find each other and share the warmth that flows through them. Fitting perfectly together like the moon eclipsing the sun in waves of pure, breathtaking excellence. 

The days are filled with laughter and tender whispers of admiration against scarred flesh. Life giving hands famous for harbouring souls rub gentle circles into aching feet. A voice that was once hoarse with the shouts of a thousand commands across the desert sand now whisper soft terms of endearments with the exchange of a hot cup of tea. Eyes, once blackened with familial love and heavy with restless nights, gaze longingly at the gaunt face of the man his very soul decided to entwine with. In the unclouded sunshine they banter and laugh together as two halves of a whole, freeing themselves up the love of the other without fear of judgement for bearing their torn hearts in tribute to the crushing infatuation they share. 

For now they bask in the nurturing rays of the sun, looking lovingly at the other, listening to the thundering storm of metal clad shoes racing across the fresh earth. 

Feeling absolutely perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they lived happily ever after..... 
> 
>  
> 
> Oh man, finally finished. I cannot thank all of you enough for the love and support you have given this fic. I couldn’t be happier with how it has grown from a little idea created through one song to this! Once again thank you so much and I hope you all have enjoyed this journey as much as I have 💜💜


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